Capitain Scaramouche To Right This Wrong
by TWSythar
Summary: Sequel to 'Into the Fire We Fly'. Grantaire decides that enough is enough, and enlists the help of L'aigle and Joly in his quest to track down the real spy who has been informing on the Amis. Complete. Chapter 19 - Grantaire derailed.
1. Consider The Composition Of This France

**Consider… The Composition Of This France (p.53)**

**A/N: We recommend first reading 'Into the Fire We Fly' as this is a direct continuation of that story and while certainly enjoyable in its own right... will make much more sense once the first part has been read. For the illustrations of the story, visit technicolor-werewolf at deviantart. All the titles for this part of the series are quotes from Raphael Sabatini's novel 'Scaramouche' which is one of the inspirations for the series. Please review the story if you like it - and if you don't. We love getting reviews.**  
**  
We do not own Les Miserables.**

Today they would study the chambers of the heart, a very interesting subject indeed and one that lent itself - at least in Eugene Combeferre's mind - to certain philosophical debates. Could one not collect the many and myriad literary references to the size and uses of that particular organ and compare it first to medical theory and then to philosophical theory, finally cross-referencing to great literature both in the original Latin or Greek and the more modern French - and theology for anything that had been missed out?

He walked quickly towards the university, a little later than he preferred because he had been collecting the laundry which he had informed Enjolras was waiting for collection the previous day. Unfortunately, their Leader appeared to have been distracted by the Greatness of the Cause again. This tended to happen whenever something as pragmatically dull and human as laundry, cleaning, paying the bills, sleeping or - and here we utter a prayer to those sainted angels who watch over philosophers - _eating_. The day was crisp and the path relatively unlittered by those distractions that life liked to throw in the way of devoted students. Eugene pushed his glasses up and hitched his satchel higher up his shoulder, glad he'd thought to drop the laundry at home on his way to class. his satchel was already rather too heavy thanks to the extra tomes on law and philosophy he had taken to carrying around Just In Case he needed to cover one of Enjolras' lectures for him.

It was at this moment that he noticed Bahorel and Courfeyrac standing in his path, jostling each other in a rather infantile pantomime about what appeared to be the myriad diseases which could be caught from being so close to a place of learning. Despite the sun, Bahorel had even taken the precaution of buttoning his coat up against the evils of study, and Combeferre wondered rather dryly if at some point he were going to present a vial of holy water to the buildings and say his Pater Noster.

"Dominic..." he frowned a little to show he disapproved by principle, and was relatively certain he was twinkling anyway. "Lucien. Hello."

"Allo!" Bahorel gave him a grin not without its pointy little subtleties. The man was solid for the cause, and a pleasant enough character, but did not seem to be able to honestly abide anything that even smelled as if it had been near a school book.

Lucien, more polite and diplomatic - not, granted Eugene honestly, that this would be hard - settled for a cheerful wave. "Beware university, my good Eugene... the university will make you _sick_!"

"Just look at what it's done to poor Joly, eh?" Bahorel chimed in, grinning rather cheekily and rubbing his nose in the way their favorite nervous medicine in training always did when he was feeling particularly concerned about the state of his health.

Thank you, Joly. Thank you for giving off the idea that all medical students believe in invisible humours which will seep into your blood and make you ill with the plague. Of all the ridiculous notions... He huffed irritably. "How can I help you this morning, gentlemen?" It was clear to anyone with eyes that they had positioned themselves at exactly this spot in the hopes of bumping into him. After all, dragging Bahorel anywhere near a university was a feat in and of itself, but to get him close to one which didn't even have the slightest relevance to his own - rather loosely termed, naturally - 'studies' would require an extremely special motivation. Eugene stopped and waited for them to say whatever it was that they had come here to say. It would probably be about the third in the trio of Men Who Do Not Like School - their missing third. Grantaire.

"We wanted to talk to you.**" **Bahorel said quite seriously.

Lucien nodded. "Can you spare a moment or two?"

Eugene preferred to be twenty minutes early to his class. He was down to being fifteen minutes early thanks to a large bundle of Enjolras' socks and trousers. It was quite odd to see socks which belonged to Enjolras, as the man perpetually gave off that 'Angelic' aura which indicated he didn't really wear such things as socks and would never ever need to use a handkerchief. Still. Better to get this issue before it could fester. He checked his watch out of habit, and nodded. "mm. Yes. A few minutes."

"Good. It won't be long." Bahorel took the lead over to one of the benches in the greenery just next to the university, and Lucien helpfully - obviously convinced a stuffy bespectacled specimen like Eugene would have difficulty finding the way on his own - took his arm and guided him in the same general direction.

"Here. Sit down."

Obediently, Eugene sat and waited. Sometimes it felt like he spent a great deal of his life patiently waiting for the rest of the world to catch up and tell him what he already knew so he wouldn't have to pretend not to already know it.

Bahorel leaned forwards, blunt as ever. "It's about the meeting yesterday."

"I'm listening." He nodded to punctuate the fact, and resettled his spectacles. Hopefully this wouldn't cut into his class time. He'd lost significant hours of study through the enforced stay at - ironically - the abandoned school. Irony. Life's way of telling him that _really_ we don't have to take things _quite_ that seriously, do we? If only he could get Augustin to appreciate the beauties of it.

"It's about Grantaire." Lucien took them one step closer to whatever point it was they were going to make about their drinking companion and fellow layabout.

And then Bahorel _made_ the point with about as much subtlety as a man killing a fly with a hammer. "We talked about it and we don't think he did any such thing."

Really? Now wasn't that a surprise. He looked unsurprised, as this always seemed to disconcert people.

"Can you think of anyone else who might have been responsible?" It wasn't an answer, and Eugene was quite aware that it was considered technically improper form to answer a question with another question, but it gave him some time to think - as well as allowing him a chance to root right down to the cause of Courfeyrac and Bahorel's concerns. The sun was getting in his eyes, and he squinted a little, using a hand to hade against the bright light. Surrounded in the blazing aura of blinding sunlight - please, if that wasn't a euphemism of some sort for Enjolras then he didn't know what was - the two good friends were exchanging a look which showed that they were trying very hard to come up with names from some sort of communal list.

It was unlikely. Eugene had already tried for some time to formulate such a list. Common decency demanded they investigate every avenue before allowing Perceval Grantaire to take the responsibility on his rather cowed and drunken shoulders. However, the list was nonexistant. They were all exceptionally careful about their doings. It had to be one of the group, and if coming down to Joly or Grantaire... Well, really. Even should one hypothetically presume Joly would go anywhere near a police station without being consumed with fear of catching whatever it was that made criminals criminal - then to imagine him capable of turning in his own twin?

"I agree I find it a hard thing to believe of anyone," he said aloud. "but Augustin is right in that there is a limited number of people who know where we meet and all the others were arrested."

"Any one of us could have been followed if we weren't paying attention." Bahorel said stubbornly.

"Hell -" Lucien made a gesture, half Spanish affectation. "...it wouldn't have been that hard to pick up by a casual visitor to the cafe either." Really now. Eugene hid a snort carefully. Did they really think Enjolras and he would let their group sit around and talk treason where just anyone could hear them? A lot of thought had gone into the cafe, where it was, who frequented it, and whether or not they might be overheard. The backrooms were practically inaudible in the busy hustle and bustle of the Cafe, and Enjolras always carefully scheduled the more important meetings for off-peak times where the Cafe was all but empty and all but closed, and Louisson could inform them whenever someone who looked suspicious came through the doors.

"And anyway, Combeferre," Bahorel again, impatient now. Obviously they had not been looking for healthy debate, then. "he doesn't have any motive and probably not the means either."

"...actually, Bahorel, I can think of at least one motive." Eugene looked at them over the top of his glasses, raising both eyebrows in a 'please stop presuming you're all talking about things I haven't already thought of' sort of way. People tended to do this with frequency. It got annoying.

Courfeyrac blinked a little."Really? Dieu. What?"

"And what's that?" Where Courfeyrac had looked mildly impressed, Bahorel merely looked agravated, his eyes narrowing a little as he drummed his fingers against the wood of the bench.

"It's probably the oldest reason. Money." The only reason that made any sense in his mind. After all, any fool could see how tatty GrandR's clothes could get. His shoes were full of holes, his shirts worn thin and shining and patched on the elbows until the elbow patches had patches. With all that booze and no money, the man must owe debts from Notre Dame to Montparnasse and back.

Another look passed between the two men, and Lucien summed it up with an exceedingly skeptical, _"Money_." It was perhaps typical that someone as straight as Courfeyrac couldn't imagine anyone selling out his amis for something as ridiculous as money. Of course... Courfeyrac had never really _wanted_ for money.

"I'm sure there are other reasons." I just couldn't think of any. "That is one of the more charitable, really. After all - if he found himself in need... who are we to judge?" It really wouldn't have bothered him if that was why Grantaire had done it. Choosing between a handful of acquaintances and debtors jail could get the better of any man. Well... he baulked a little at that... almost any man. ...any very weak willed and morally ... deficiant man.

"I never thought I'd say this about an ami of mine," Bahorel said slowly, his skepticism almost as palpable as the unwillingness to say whatever he was going to say about the maligned Grantaire, "but I really don't think he's got the guts to do something like this."

Whatever Eugene had expected, this wasn't it. "The guts?"

"...or... _really_ Combeferre..." Courfeyrac ran an elegant hand through his hair, displacing it into a mop that almost rivalled Bahorel's. "Can you see him being _motivated_ enough to?"

" ...or...well, convincing anyone that he had a point." his friend chimed in.

Lucien nodded. "Lucidly, you know."

"Now that, is a very good point." And it was. Eugene turned their ideas over in his head and had to admit that they were quite right. Even with the offering of money, it was extraordinarily difficult to imagine Grantaire stumbling into the Prefecture Du Police and leaning over the desk to declaim Apollo and All His Bright Shining Minions, for they will rain the Fires of Olympia down on your Cursed Heads. He'd said that once to a young man who'd been visiting. Poor fellow had never returned. They really would have to start warning people about GrandR... if the sot was ever allowed back, of course.

"It is, isn't it?" Courfeyrac looked inordinately pleased for a man who had just managed to convince someone that his mate was neither brave enough nor clever enough to turn a bunch of revolutionaries in to the guards. This seemed rather ironic, and Eugene had to fight a smile. If only Augustin admired irony. Ah, now Bahorel was giving him a look. It was the look of a child who had seen the sweet and heard the parent tell them they would _get_ the sweet and now _wanted_ the sweet.

"Fine." He sighed. "I suppose I agree with you. You want me to talk to Augustin about it, don't you."

"That would be incredibly helpful and nice of you, yes," Bahorel said in a voice that had a little too much sugar in it. As though to say, 'yes, Combeferre, go do your amazing deed for the day. Talk to Enjolras, oh the Heroism.' Look, Bahorel, you really want to try telling Enjolras that you think he misjudged _Grantaire_? Be my guest.

Still. Now they'd convinced him. Someone had to do it.

"..After class." he said firmly, giving Bahorel a look.

"Oh, naturally."

Tactfully, Courfeyrac grabbed his friend by the arm and started hauling him off. It seemed he was in a tug-by-the-arm mood today."Right. Thanks 'Ferre. See you later."

If I survive, Eugene thought rather dryly and picked up his books. Now he was exactly two minutes early, and would probably be 'On Time' instead. Bother.


	2. The Mouthpiece of a People, No More

**A/N: Please note that there is no illustration for this chapter due to pressures and stuff. Instead we welcome you to look at old illustrations. :3 Enjoy!  
**

There was still so much to be done today. People to meet. Another article to write. At some point Enjolras knew he also had to come up with a time for the next meeting, and give that to Combeferre. But all that could wait until after he was done with the book of which he was in the middle of.

And apparently also until after he finished dealing with whoever was now knocking at the door. "It's open," he said in a carrying tone, and waited until Combeferre had appeared in the doorway to return to his reading. It was probably about something pointless like laundry or the breakfast he hadn't eaten. "Yes?" he asked, turning over a minimum of attention to whatever reminder he was being served with _this_ morning.

"We need to talk," Combeferre said firmly.

"All right." Nothing was stopping him, that was certain.

Combeferre sighed. "…about Grantaire."

_Snap_. Enjolras shut his book between the fingers of one hand and gave his visitor a look of some annoyance. "I thought we settled that yesterday."

"Lucien and Dominic came to talk to me about it," he said in his most sensible, level-headed, reasonable, _irritating_ tone. "I think they may have some valid points."

"Why didn't they come talk to me, then?"

Combeferre's eyebrow rose slightly. "Hmm. I didn't ask."

"You ought have. I don't want to be the kind of leader that no one can approach. You know I don't like being put on a pedestal." He was going to have to be more guarded about his speech; he was starting to sound petulant. He refused to believe that the attitude could be linked to his empty stomach, as Combeferre's involuntary glance toward his untouched plate seemed to indicate his friend did.

"I imagine they would not hesitate to approach you about most things, Enjolras," Combeferre said, switching to his 'diplomatic' voice. He must sound even more defensive than he thought he had. Enjolras made a mental note to spend more time working on keeping his emotional tone level. "But you do have a certain...known dislike of Grantaire."

…was that so. "So they assume I'm biased."

"Are you?" Combeferre asked simply.

No. Yes. No. He was not _biased_. He did treat Grantaire differently than he treated the others, but Grantaire was also a fine example of the apathetic, cynical, drunken and morally indifferent type that would drag the Revolution down in the end were it allowed to proliferate. He picked up his fork and poked at whatever unidentifiable mess the housekeeper had delivered. "If I were, I would hardly admit to it. Even the Church does not force a man to broadcast his sin, and I must be perfect as Justice and Right are perfect."

"I see," Combeferre said. He could hear a slight smile in his voice. "Do you want to hear their valid points?"

"Does it matter? You're going to tell me anyway." Besides, if Combeferre said their points were valid, there had to be at least some logic behind them. He might as well listen.

"True." Combeferre paused to adjust his glasses, a habit of his. "Apart from feeling Grantaire wouldn't have any motive to turn us in, they _did_ make the point that it is unlikely he would have the nerve or the lucidity to do the job at all."

Enjolras sighed and thought this over for a moment before realizing there was something they had missed. He tried not too looked too pleased with himself. "I suppose that is a point. Only the last one, though. An utterly illogical drunk such as he could not have done it easily...unless he was prompted by someone actively looking for information. Did they think of _that_ possibility?"

Combeferre looked extremely skeptical, even more so than he generally looked when holding rare conversations with Joly. "...Does he _have_ any other 'friends' who might even _know_ he has access to us?"

"You expect me to know the answer to that? As if I spend my time following him around?" He had far better things to do with his time, that was for certain.

A slight frown. "For anyone to know he comes to the meetings, they would have to be _watching_ us in which case they wouldn't even have needed the Win-" Combeferre caught himself, and Enjolras gave him his own version of the infamous over-the-glasses look. Having no glasses, he looked down his nose instead. His friend ignored it and continued with his self-correction. "-Grantaire."

"He talks incessantly, the more so the more drunken he gets. I doubt the phenomenon is confined to our meetings," Enjolras pointed out. Combeferre looked for a moment as though he might be convinced, something which – if he recalled correctly – almost never happened. But then the look gave way to a frown.

"In which case he didn't turn us in to the authorities at all - even _if_ he did cause our arrest."

"The difference is merely a difference in cause, and differences in causes are mere trivia when the effect is the same. The blacksmith who cheated on nails is just as responsible for the loss of the battle as the messenger who pushed his beast too far for the shoe to hold." He and Combeferre always debated like this. It was good to have another voice on one's own level, even if that voice disagreed with one.

"But this is more a case of considering the horse responsible for the blacksmith's greed and the messenger's poor judgment," Combeferre said. Now he was using his best persuasive voice. "Were Grantaire the cause of our incarceration due to an unfortunate word spoken at a time when he was no longer in control of his sensibilities, then is it truly something we can blame him for?"

Enjolras could _almost_ not believe that Combeferre had just asked him that question. "He is an irresponsible drunkard who takes no care in doing anything and certainly makes no attempt to keep himself in control of his own sensibilities. I think that we can."

"He's quite human," Combeferre said. Of course. Combeferre had what Enjolras considered to be a blind spot caused by his unconditional love for humanity. "While we may consider him too much of a liability to attend our meetings anymore, anything that he did was done without malice - in which case you were too harsh."

"I maintain that I was not," he said sharply, perhaps too sharply. He reined in his tone and continued in a calmer manner. "He believes that there is no good in humanity; this, in spite of his presence among a group of men dedicated to preserving what is good in humanity; therefore, I do not believe he can have much of his human feelings left, and in any case he only gets exactly what he expects, which is more than what many of us hope to get."

He could tell from Combeferre's stern look that this last phrase had been a tactical misstep. He simply couldn't afford to keep making errors like this. "A man steeped in poverty does not expect any different from the world except harshness, does this therefore excuse us from extending any compassion to him?"

"This is a different case," he said severely. "He has rejected the compassion extended to him and clings to his ways."

Combeferre raised an eyebrow. "I cannot remember any of us extending compassion to him." They exchanged significant and contradictory looks.

"You don't remember my early attempts to convert him?" Enjolras prodded.

Combeferre sighed a little. "...ami, I _know_ you've seen men on the streets, you've helped men on the streets too. And sometimes they won't accept the help because they can't trust that it won't be taken away from them. _Sometimes_ it takes a long time to form that trust." Another brief battle of glaring ensued.

"You just want me to give in to him, don't you?" Enjolras said finally.

"…I want you to think about it, and to try to do so without any – bias," Combeferre said gently.

"I don't have any _bias_," he said in annoyance. Watch the tone, Augustin. "My views are firmly grounded in the principles of Liberty and as such are not to be changed lightly."

"Oui, I know. However, according to the principles of Liberty every man is due a fair trial... and the chance to defend himself." Combeferre continued to look so solemn – and, damn it, to make sense – that he couldn't refuse him in the end.

"Fine. Fine. I'll _consider_ it."

"Good." Combeferre got up from the seat he'd taken without Enjolras' really noticing. "Shall I bring your laundry by? I got it from the washerwoman earlier for you." Oh. He'd forgotten that.

"Thank you, if you would." He poked at his breakfast with the fork he'd also forgotten he was still holding. "Why am I supposed to eat this, again?"

"Do you want a detailed description of the benefits of nutrition or for me to say 'Because I said so'?"

He scowled a bit in response to Combeferre's smile; he had things to do today. "The second one. It's shorter."

"Because I said so and I'm a doctor." He straightened his coat and glasses in preparation for going out. "I'll be along later with the laundry. And the assignment you _forgot_." He gave Enjolras a normally guilt-inducing stare.

He ignored it. "You're always so busy, one day you're going to realize you have absolutely no time left to think."

"I'm thinking all the time, Augustin," Combeferre replied quietly.

"Thinking of ways to badger me into behaving like a 'normal human being'."

Combeferre smiled a little at him. "There's that as well, of course. I'll see you later, Enjolras."

"See you later." His book was calling. And that article. And the three potential initiates he'd been seeing, and he had to have a vague meeting time for the lieutenants before Combeferre returned with his laundry. He was much too busy to think about Grantaire.

When he found that he'd merely skimmed the last three chapters, however, he finally admitted that perhaps he should just get it over and done with so that he could properly concentrate.

Dieu, but Combeferre could be persuasive sometimes.


	3. Behind the Skirts of Thespis

**A/N Due to the fact that my darling TW has recently had her wisdom teeth out, we are making do with no illustration this week. -Sythar**

Grantaire took the steps up to his flat slowly, shoved the door open and caught a whiff of something. One of those somethings that was wont to cling to the skirts of Paris... sharp and pungent. Sweat and bad humour and vomit from the sickening baby, rotting carrots and bad wine and shouted phrases beginning with 'tu' and laughter that didn't really make itself into merriment.

Paris. Sometimes he hated her.

Today, for instance, he was willing to hate everybody. After the idiotic jaunt to Joly's apartment, he'd done what everyone would have expected him to do, what he expected of himself and grinned in thin-lipped irony over as he poured the first glass. Oh to be a drunk and a fool. Hated, for certain, but no longer alone. Mlle Absinthe, his green fairy, kissed his lips and took away the sting, if only for a little while.

Today his head had hurt, which wasn't really surprising, was it? He'd gone to work in a foul temper which had grown only worse. M. Verleaux, thin and hard and brittle like a thornbush, stood in residence over the counter, using his hired help - his 'assistant' as something like a man-of-all-trades. Appropriate, Grantaire had always thought. Walk a mile in the shoes of Scaramouche, my friend. He is master of all skills, and servant to none. Grantaire, however, was legal advice, accountant, salesman and carpenter. All for four francs a day.

Three customers had insisted he find them texts including the writings of Saint-Just, and one bad-tempered schollar had demanded he read and reread the poem '_Le coeur de l'homme est l'enigme du Sphinx'. _It had been particularly hard to read 'Un coeur brûlé de la soif des Houris, Une âme sèche,' and imagine the Cafe with those insufferable boys with their health and humour and good fortune laughing about the phrasing and leading Enjolras to make some well-timed and calm proposal on the subject of Saint-Just as the Absolute. Enjolras always talked in Absolutes, really. There was Combeferre The Absolute, and Courfeyrac The Absolute. Even Joly had an Absolute, and Grantaire was more inclined to think it might be a relatively nice one now.

Saint-Just and thirsty souls. Over and over until his head ached and the money wouldn't work itself out on the page, and he was tired. He stood in his small living area and noted that he had forgotten to put away the hat and cloak he had used on the last excursion as Scaramouche. Papa Scaramouche. He who tugged ungrateful schoolboys out of prison and didn't have the sense to realise they'd see him as the...

Hah. How many had actually disagreed with what Enjolras had said, he wondered, putting the hat under the sofa and shuffling over to the stove to make a pot of coffee too black, too sweet and too strong. How many apart from Joly had actually given him credit for loyalty to them? Silly thing to think about, of course. Would only lead down the neck of another bottle.

Someone knocked on his door, firm even raps which expected to get answered, and answered quickly. Grantaire picked up his coffee with an oath against the world in general and shoved the door open, wincing just a little at the creak of the hinges. His mouth was open to inform the invader that he was well on his way to soused and irrational, that he was going boxing and gambling in short order, that he planned to spend the evening turning cartwheels on the Ponte du Notre Damme. Anything so long as they would leave.

Bright hair... bright eyes...

He dropped his coffee, and a spatter hit his leg, stinging sharply enough to make him yelp. Like a schoolboy. Dieu damn it.

"Hello, Grantaire," Enjolras said, his face quite compsed, austere... like a work in glass and light and angellic prophecy.

_fougueux le courage indompté, _Grantaire thought, latching onto poetry in sheer panic. His leg hurt, but what was that in comparison to the startling fact of Enjolras on his very own doorstep. He spoke, and his voice was weak as water. "Hello... Enjolras."

"May I come in." It wasn't a question.

Please don't, Grantaire thought warily. You'll take me to my living room and steer me through the alleys of my sinful self until I'll be too lost to find my way back from the darkest pits of my mind. You'll disect me with words the way Combeferre might weild his scalpel. You'll eat me, Enjolras. I'm afraid. "Of course. Please." He opened the door further, inviting in destruction. As thought he could refuse.

Enjolras barely seemed to hear him, brushing by while somehow managing to refrain from making contact. Grantaire shut the door rather stupidly and then followed into the living room. What is it to be, Angellic Statue? Are you here to berate the Winecask for his failings again? The sofa was tidy, thank dieu... and even the coffee table bore no signs of booze. Just a lot of books.

"I won't stay long." Enjolras looked straight ahead, mouth rather pinched. "I just need to tell you that - I...may have...been a bit...over-harsh with you."

The earth came to a complete stop and Grantaire felt distinctly as though he had been flung into the great beyond. "...really." It was the most intelligent thing he could think of to say. Everything else came under the category of 'um'.

"Yes." Enjolras said. "I ought to have realized that even if you may have indirectly been the cause of our arrest through negligence, you were unlikely to have taken an active part. And so I should not have put quite so much blame on you."

Once, when he'd been a lot younger, Grantaire had loved irony. He didn't so much anymore. "Oh." Another helpful statement, and he felt his chest grow tight, a painful stinging in his throat. Oh dieu. Not in front of him, please. Please have mercy. Not right before those cold blue beautiful eyes.

"You realize of course you and your drunkenness are nevertheless an insurmountable liability to our organization." Drunkenness and Liability practically spat out as though the most vile of words to be found in the Book of Sin.

"...so..." He pinched his nose and tried to look sober and thoughtful, and probably just ended up looking like a cracked little manniquin doll. A pierot who had been tossed down too many stairs. "I may not have directly caused your arrest but you're going to assume I did so indirectly and as such that I'm too dangerous to be allowed to return to the cafe." Neatly packaged, wasn't it? Make everyone happy.

Enjolras was still not looking at him. "There you have it".

"Well, that's a marginal step up, I suppose." He hunched his shoulders a little. No longer a Judas, am I? Just a blabbing loadmouth who's too stupid to realise he's selling out his friends. Traitor or fool? Well, little choice there. Much as it would be nice to kiss your cheek in friendship, oh great one, not in front of soldiers who would lead you to your death s'il-vous-plait. How we're all going to pr... how _you're_ all going to probably end up.

**"**But you understand the point I'm making." Enjolras was ready to leave. Perhaps one of the others had taken him aside. Oh, Enjolras... hey, look... Grantaire's not really the _betraying_ kind... not... you know... intentionally. So being pure and just, he had to come to retract some of his venom.

Ha. Nothing much changed, did it? He smiled a crooked smile, bigger than life as always. "...s'pose it's no use my saying I didn't turn babbilliard _or_ grass, then?"

There was actually a pause, and then Enjolras said a startling thing. "Maybe."

**"** ...I - well..." Maybe? Maybe? Was he going to _listen_ for once? Hope wasn't something Grantaire was particularly fond of or familiar with, but she could be intozicating. "I don't ... talk out of turn. I know I can't prove it, of course, but - I'm not _quite_ that far gone." When I am, you have my permission to put one of Zeus's thunderbolts through my skull. God forbid I reach the stage that I drink away my soul. Though life'd be a bit easier without it, no arguing.

**"**Yes? Is that so?"

It was the clenched-teeth politeness in his voice that agreed with the doubts, not with Hope. And hope died. He stuck his hands deep into his pockets and stared at the ground, again saying a little prayer for composure. "Yes." It came out gruff, angry almost. Not like you're listening, is it Enjolras? Not like you're actually going to hear what I'm saying. Because why? Is it the drink? Is it my face? Why?

"Mhm. I - suppose - there's a chance - it mightn't have been you."

"...well _I_ know it wasn't." he drawled, with intentional antagonism, that bit of puffed-up bravado that always got under Enjolras' skin. "Know my word isn't worth much, of course." Course I know it. You said so. Not the first time, either.

Enjolras rewarded him immediately, just exactly as he had expoected. "Well either way I still don't want you back."

"...Ever?" It slipped out. It slipped out even while he was mentally thanking Enjolras for reminding him why he there were so few men he respected. Respect a man, see, and then he decides you're quite worthless. It happens all the time. Well, it happens to me all the time. And yet he was pleading, almost.

"Winecask, how many times have I already told you this?" Grantaire dared look up at this and saw Enjolras' eye fixed on him, cool unfriendliness personified.

"At least one more time, Apollo," pull it together, Grantaire. Don't let them see the blood, hmm? He sighed and smiled and made a joke, like a good fool. "to get through my thick skull, if you please."

"Mocking is all you can ever do." Grantaire made no reply, having none to make and having no defense to give. After a short pause, Enjolras obviously felt that the point had to be hammered home a little harder. "Your jeers are not needed in our meetings. We have work to do and only those serious about the cause are wanted. You are a liability, a distraction, and an offense to our beliefs. Stay out, Grantaire; do not come back."

It was like being killed. Grantaire felt his jaw clench very tightly, and his hands follow suit. He was stiff, slain by Apollo's merciless darts. He wanted to slump, to collapse at Enjolras feat, to beg mercy and accede defeat. You win, Bright Angel. He looked so brilliant, golden and bright like the archangel casting out the sinners. It was hard to hold his eyes up and meet the piercing, condemning eyes, but somehow he did. His voice stayed level, and his face stayed still. "Right."

"Can you manage that much or will you be back under my feet within the week as you always are?" Enjolras asked, impatient it seemed. He probably wanted to get back to his important work. Not be standing around wasting his time.

"...I think I can handle that assignment." He was proud of himself. There was nothing in his voice at all. Just flatness and calm.

**"**Good. I'll be going, then."

Of course. Grantaire nodded, and then spoke anyway, unable to help it. "... Enjolras..."

"...yes?"

"...be careful. If it wasn't me, it was someone else."

"I have every intention of doing so." Enjolras didn't bother with a nod goodbye, or a handshake or even a final glance. With the air of a man glad to have done a distasteful duty and finally have it gone, he swept out of Grantaire's house, leaving behind a chill that was sharper than the lengthening winter nights.

For a while Grantaire stood and watched the spot where Enjolras had stood. Like a candle just out of reach, and he was so tired of reaching for what he couldn't ever have. He stood, and he thought. And paced. And thought some more. The clock struck eleven... later... even later... and finally he spun on his heel and grabbed up his coat, sweeping out the door.


	4. Nothing Succeeds Like Audacity

**A/N - My TW is recovered enough to provide us with an illustration for this chapter! Also please note that from now on we are updating twice a week, on Saturdays and Wednesdays, but will only be providing illustrations for every second chapter. :3 Enjoy! Review please!**

"_Vastly more important to our situation as an organization," Enjolras said, and a sword of flame appeared in his hand. It hissed and spat like the serpents twining on the broken vase at the leader's feet. And the pieces turned into a man who said "Don't go being an idiot, y' damn fool," and the man was so familiar but he couldn't get his name, and he knew he ought to know him, but he didn't know him at all. And the sword of fire turned into ice and it cut down the man and before he could say a word he fell to the floor with a thud – _

And then another. And another, in quick succession. Joly blinked several times into his pillow before it hit his sluggish brain that it was now conscious, and several more times before it realized that those sounds were someone knocking at the door. At this hour? It had to be an emergency. Nevertheless he waited until the knocking was repeated and he failed to hear Daniel get up before he dragged himself from his bed, pulled on something approaching clothing, and hauled himself up to answer the door. Once again he found himself blinking into the doorway at a _very_ unexpected visitor. "Whaaaa…." He tried and failed to form the word properly around a yawn. "Grantaire…what are you _doing_ here?"

"I'm going to find them," Grantaire said impatiently. Find…what? What was he talking about? Was he drunk? If he was drunk, Joly had every intention of simply closing the door and going back to bed.

"…all right. Go do it, then," he managed through his sleepy haze.

"No no no," Grantaire said in a ridiculously energetic way. Especially given the hour. "I need you to help."

_Again?_ "…it is almost midnight. Probably after midnight, I didn't check."

Grantaire frowned. "…midnight."

Yes, _midnight_. As in after the time he went to bed. As in a time at which he would _very_ much like to be asleep. "Grantaire, I'm half asleep as it is," he said, waving vaguely. "Come back tomorrow, all right?"

The other man scowled at him. "I can't sleep. I'll wait." And with that he pulled out a sheaf of papers and sat down on the step to make notes on them by the light of the street-lamp. Maurice groaned. Dear Dieu, he really wasn't going to be able to rid himself of Grantaire, was he?

"Nnnh…fine. I'll try to make some coffee or something," he said finally, giving in.

Grantaire perked up even further. Really, was he entirely sober? Joly didn't think he could be. "...mm. Coffee. Do you have any food? I don't think I ate today."

"There's probably something." Not bothering to formally invite Grantaire in, he simply stumbled along toward the kitchen. Nevertheless Grantaire followed, still babbling away.

"You can go back to bed, you know," he said, intending to be reassuring but falling…very…short. "I'll just sit and…think. A lot."

Oh noooooo no no. There was no way he was leaving Grantaire alone in the house. Especially not like this. Something awful might happen and though he couldn't bring himself to care at the moment, Daniel would probably be mad later. "No…no, it's fine." He put water on for coffee and started digging through cupboards for food. Anything to shut (and hopefully sober) Grantaire up.

By the time he came back out with bread and some coffee that was probably far too strong, but he was so _tired_ that it didn't matter and he really didn't care anyway, Grantaire was compulsively resorting the books on the shelf in some order that only made sense to himself. Come to think of it, maybe he wasn't drunk. Perhaps he was just gone mad. Could it be catching? He'd worry about it when he'd woken up a little further. Grantaire caught sight of him and deserted the bookshelf in favor of food and drink. "Thank you, thank you thank you. Very kind. So kind in fact. Lovely," he went on hyperactively. Maurice merely poured himself a cup of coffee and drank the entire thing in less than a minute. Not for the first time recently, he wasn't quite sure if he were quite awake.

The buzz hit him suddenly, like running into a wall and unexpectedly feeling it crumble away, or introducing a flock of miniscule insects into the bloodstream and feeling the furious hum _cap-à-pié. _He numbly poured another cup and drank that too. Dieu, it was strong. It was _very_ strong. And now he was very awake. Very very awake and very conscious and suddenly he realized that the books on the shelf were now arranged in order of clarity of subject matter. And that made perfect sense.

"Right. Good. Hm." Grantaire was now finished with the bread and moving on to his own coffee, pausing to stare fixedly at him. "Joly…we need to save the Amis."

"Save the Amis." The words shot out of his mouth unchecked. "Save the Amis? Us? Save the Amis? Grantaire, we already _did_ that."

"Yes, I know I know," Grantaire said solemnly, but not losing his edge of insanity. Which was definitely catching, but he didn't quite care. "But we need to do it _again_ again."

"Again again is three times."

Grantaire made a kind of 'poof' noise with his lips. "_Again_ then."

"Well what happened now?" Whatever it was, he was sure he could handle it. There was nothing he couldn't do at the moment.

"Exactly. You'd _think_…" He paused, and Maurice watched him as he stopped and carefully returned each book to its original position. "...you'd _think_ eight fine strong young men with such fine brains would be able to take care of themselves." Another pause. "...Seven, present company being excepted and all."

"Oh no, don't include me," he agreed, "I'm not strong at all."

Grantaire immediately bopped him over the head with one of the books. "Bein' excepted due to present company having the brains not to get himself into trouble such as likes of good self have to extricate him from."

He found himself giggling a little. "You win. Brains."

"Na-tu-rally," he said, drawing out every syllable. "Now... present good self being as it were banished from the presence of our aforementioned bright young men, what is to stop them from becoming careless and carefree with their tongues and landin' themselves once more in the charming penitentionaries of Paris?"

Maurice thought for a second and then waved a hand. "Nothing?"

Grantaire pointed at him with the book still in his hand. "Right. See? Brains. Good brains, too. Right! Nothing. So, my fine fine Harlequin friend of a brainy young man... we must find the sinister and evil person taking advantage of the strong but not overly smart young men - and stop them."

Heh. Brainy? Me? Maurice-Hilaire-don't-touch-me-it-might-be-catching-Joly, brainy? Very nice joke Grantaire. Very nice indeed. I'll let you have it though because it seems to me you just proposed something very interesting about stopping evil and sinister people. "That's about twenty times harder than the last time we had to save them."

Grantaire paused and then continued very thoughtfully. "In my experience... things have a habit of getting harder. It's a heroic cycle of sorts. Each villain needs to be more challenging or the hero has no idea he's being a good little hero and doing what he should be doing."

…brains are one thing, heroes are another, 'mi. Maybe I misheard? Wouldn't be the first time for it to happen. "…so we're heroes."

"I always considered myself more the comic relief, but that would appear to be the part we are currently in possession of," Grantaire said seriously. "Just secret heroes no one knows is heroes."

"Secrets are bothersome," Maurice said lightly, and got up for another cup of coffee. Everything was so _fuzzy_ but he felt more carefree and energetic than he had in days.

"True," Grantaire said, following him to the coffeepot. "Perhaps we should go to Enjolras and tell him our daring plan. I can see that working."

He laughed as he poured the coffee. "Could you see his _face_? It would be like asking…I don't even know!"

"No no. I tried that already today," Grantaire said with a grin. "Once is enough." Maurice lifted an eyebrow. "Enjolras came to visit, says I might not have intentionally handed you all in to the authorities but I'm still bad news, terrible person and should go die."

He was already halfway through his nth cup of coffee, didn't really care how much he'd had. Really didn't see why he usually avoided the stuff. Was that his heartbeat he could feel doing cartwheels? "That's terrible. Where's he get that from? You're not a terrible person. You're a pretty nice person."

Grantaire sighed. "Nah... he just doesn't like me. He's too convincing about it. When he gets going I start believing every word he says. Be a wonderful lecturer."

"Oh yeah, he would," he nodded, finishing off the cup. "Definitely would." For some unknowable unthinkable reason Grantaire suddenly choked on his coffee and spit it out. That couldn't be good. "You a'right there?" he asked with a tilt of the head.

"'Bout to ask you the same thing, oh brain of the ABC," Grantaire said with a very very odd look at himself Joly. He stirred the air with his finger in that not quite elegant very singular gesture. "_You_ just said _I_ was rather _nice_."

There was something wrong with this? "Ah-huh…yeah?"

"That…is just _strange_," he said, looking at he himself like a broken-vase serpent facing down a rabbit.

"Yeah. I tend to act strange sometimes." Didn't everyone know that? Everybody ought to know that. Sometimes it was _all_ he was known for.

"...well, that's all right then. I had the strangest idea that you _didn't_ like me, Harlequin," Grantaire said with a sip of his coffee.

"I used to didn't like you - I mean - not - you know what I mean." He grabbed at the air looking for words and didn't find them, and tried not to laugh as it wasn't really funny but everything _seemed_ so ridiculous all of a sudden that he couldn't _help_ but want to laugh at it all.

Grantaire waved regally as Scaramouche ought. Oh yes, he was Scaramouche, and always always had been. "I comprehend perfectly. Carry on."

"But I think you're pretty decent," he finally managed to pronounce around his slipping stuttering much-confused tongue. "Maybe on accident but you are."

"…I think I can live with that," Grantaire said very thoughtfully.

An interesting development. So now they were heroes? He thought he could live with that too. And possibly with another cup of coffee. Where was Daniel when you wanted him?


	5. Let Scaramouche Play What Tricks He Will

He had been sleeping, trying not to dream about dusty schoolrooms and dead Maurice and cells that smelt like someone had been sick in the corner five days ago. Daniel found that if he tried very hard, he could usually not dream about these things. But it took a lot of energy and left him sluggish in the morning.

He'd been dreaming - rather fitfully - of a large chocolate coloured rabbit with absinthe-green teeth who kept looking at him as though he'd shot its mother or something - when his dream became permeated with the strong... almost overpowering... scent of _coffee_. The rabbit appeared to be offering him some. Too strong. Far too strong. Maurice never drank coffee that strong, well, because it... um... wasn't very good for him. He tried to tell this to the rabbit, but ended up tripping over a table-cloth that hadn't been there before and knocking the coffee over both himself and the Absinthe Chocolate Rabbit - who appeared to now be wearing a mask.

Somewhat to his relief, he woke up.

Not much to his relief at all, the smell of coffee remained. Dear Dieu, what now? He fell out of bed and managed to crack himself on three objects with sharp corners, struggling into his dressing gown as the rabbit and the absinthe faded away. Dieu. He was so tired. If it was anyone... except possibly Maurice... who was making the noises and the coffee and the noises and the _smell_...

He walked out into the kitchen and found Joli and ... uh... Grantaire? "...do I smell coffee?" Grantaire, if you've fed him anything stronger than warm milk at this hour, then I don't care if you dragged us out of the _Bastile_. I am going to... so long as I don't fall over of course, or slip, or pull a muscle, or somehow break that vase which Maurice keeps saving from me... I am going to _punch_ you.

Maurice turned an intensely blinding smile at him which somehow seemed to outshine even the intensity of Enjolras' hair. "Oh. Oh hello there. Yes, I made coffee. I might've made it kind of strong though... "

"Oh god." Daniel rubbed his eyes plaintively and wished for sleep with even the rabbits and the chocolate and his nightcap that Maurice would never laugh at. "You've had more than a _cup_, haven't you." Maurice with more than a _cup_ of coffee was something like a combination of one of the very very small parisian dogs and a keg of gunpowder.

"We're heroes by accident, and he's really the brains of the whole organisation. It's quite fascinating really." Grantaire appeared to be seated on their kitchen bench, sipping out of a cup of coffee with one finger raised in the air. He also appeared to be drunk. Drunk _and_ over-excited. Like a clockwork toy wound too tight.

Maurice waved his hand vaguely. What was with all the hand waving? "I really don't even remember." He paused, seemed to rethink this last, and then grinned. "The coffee that is. I remember what we talked about."

**"**The coffee is unimportant in the large scheme of things, my friend. You have made a wise choice." Grantaire nodded as if to punctuate his point.

He was half asleep. He was also - and he was well aware of the fact, Dieu, it was held up by his grades, wasn't it? - not exactly as clever as either of the men in the kitchen with him. This was, of course, presuming he hadn't actually dreamt the evening where GrandR had come around and turned out to be Papa Scaramouche. Because he had wondered. A lot. Sometimes he'd even wanted to lean over to Maurice and ask 'Ami... hey, I wasn't _dreaming_ Grantaire is Scaramouche, right? I can buy you as _Harlequin_, but ... really... Grantaire? Really?' But this seemed a little foolish, so he hadn't.

So he was neither terribly bright nor terribly awake. But right now he appeared to be the most alert and sane person in the building. He promptly put this to the test by asking, "What is going on?"

"We've got a grand plan, the grandest there ever was. Have some coffee? You look tired." Maurice tugged at him a little, grinning brightly - so brightly that he felt a pang of jealousy. Ever since the meeting where GrandR had been dismissed (rather harshly and _really_, he was loyal to Enjolras - Vive l'Cause and all that - but did the man have to be quite so hard?) Maurice had been moping. Gloomily. And now it appeared Grantaire was the one who could make him grin again.

**"**Daniel: I'm going to _need_ the coffee, aren't I?" He tried not to sound sulky, and reminded himself that _really_, it was the _coffee_. Grantaire did not help his mood at all, grinning with almost insufferable amusement from his perch on the bench.

Maurice had somehow developed a similarly shark-like amused grin... one which Daniel blinked at in some surprise. "Oh yes."

Together they looked absolutely terrifying, like Punch from the Punch and Judy shows at the seaside. He could almost see the stick they were hiding behind their backs. "Oh god, you two are _scary_ together."

"Aren't we?" Maurice seemed pleased. "Hey, maybe we can use it as a weapon."

"...I think we should christen him Pedrolino." He did _not_ like the way Grantaire's grin had just gotten bigger... like he was going to eat him. Could he eat him? Was that even possible? Why was he rubbing his... wait...

"Daniel?"

**"**_Me_?" He would have been almost put out at the surprise in his Joli's voice if he weren't about three times more surprised himself. _Me?_ ME? His legs gave way, and he sat down heavily - squashing his second-best-hat in the process.

Grantairegave them both what was actually a really good glare... at least he thought it was a glare. Maybe it wasn't a serious glare. He hoped it _wasn't_ because _dieu_ he didn't want to be eaten.** "**Am I Scaramouche, or am I Scaramouche?

**"**Oh yes. You're Scaramouche." Maurice nodded like a pet student on his first day of school, head bobbing madly.

Not... a dream, obviously. In the hopes of not getting eaten and the interests of keeping the madmen happy, he nodded too. "You're Scaramouche, apparently."

**"**And I say he is Pedrolino. Do you _argue_ with me?" At this Grantaire actually struck a pose... on the kitchen bench... like some actor, in fact a _lot_ like one of the actors in the small but rather good Italian thing he'd gone to a couple of months back while Maurice had been making a solo visit to his mother's. A lot lot. Oh hell, who _was_ this person and where had they buried poor harmless Grantaire?

Maurice sounded horrified, but was grinning broadly. "Oh no! No arguing!"

"_Good_." And here Grantaire actually swept an invisible cape around himself with a sort off slightly-off flourish which Daniel _remembered_ from that play. What had been the name?

What was going _on_? "Wait... who am I? What? What _are_ you two _playing_ at?"

**"**Harlequin. Explain." Grantaire poured himself some more coffee and looked down his rather lumpy nose at the both of them.

**"**Ah, but I don't understand it either.**" **Maurice shrugged a little and headed back for the coffee pot again, and _really_, Daniel should stop him but all this was so confusing already.

"Fine," Grantaire sighed. "Listen to Papa Scaramouche and he will make all clear for you."

Scaramouche. That had been the character. That had been where he'd _seen_ those poses before. And Daniel blinked and could see the hero in Grantaire. It was really quite illuminating. Like a flash of lightning in a storm. "He really _is_ Scaramouche."

"See? See? It really all makes sense even if you can't understand it just by looking at it. Hey, Scaramouche, you've drunk all the coffee." Maurice looked up from the pot and gave Scara-Gran-...this Person he didn't actually know a reprooving look.

Grantaire made a weird 'poof' noise with his lips and waved a hand. " ...I will make you some more because you are a fine, fine man and a good brain." Daniel watched in some concern as more coffee than was really healthy travelled from the container to the coffee pot and... oh _dear_. Joly wasn't going to _drink _that was he? "...ANYWAY. You, L'aigle, are Pedrolino because he is a good kind man who has bad things happen to him. It fits a lot better than Harlequin for Joly, but I still like it. I was made to be Scaramouche. So. You are now one of us and will become a Hero and save the Amis."

"Everything he said." Joli nodded helpfully and drank the coffee which he really shouldn't be doing. Oh cher... that is going to make you so _ill_.

"...right." It wasn't really, he'd only understood a tiny tiny bit of what Grantaire had rattled off, but he grabbed a cup of coffee in the hopes that this would help. "And we're saving the Amis because...?"

Grantaire pointed a finger at the ceiling. "Enjolras."

"Told Scaramouche he couldn't come back - that's what you meant, right?"

"Apart from that..." Grantaire was talking at a speed that Daniel hadn't actually thought was physically possible, and now he helpfully topped up Maurice's coffee and waved his hand in that vague sketch of a gesture again. "...he's going to ignore my very sage advice and there will be more leaks. We must stop the fiend and scoundrel from killing the very nice young men in the Amis."

Wait... what? Who was... what was...?

Grantaire screwed up his face into a grimace. "...by fiend and scoundrel, I of course refer to the man acting as grass and general informer against the Amis, not our beloved and angellic - albeit one-eyed - leader."

"One-eyed? How's that?" Joli asked with every sign of complete seriousness. Daniel wasn't sure who was doing what anymore. He was just sitting on a stool in his kitchen, holding a mug of coffee and hoping to _hell_ that this was just an extension of the dream.

Grantaire tried a whisper and all but bellowed across the kitchen, "...He doesn't _like_ me."

"No...no, he doesn't like you much." Maurice giggled, and Daniel wondered if they'd _both_ been drinking. Maybe Grantaire had slipped something in the coffee. Would Grantaire do that? Yes. Would Scaramouche? Uh... maybe not. Would he?

**"**See? How could anyone not like someone like me?"

Several ways. Invading my house... feeding my best friend coffee and maybe brandy... he looked into his coffee cup and tried not to say it _too_ loudly. "It's becoming increasingly easy."

" ...is it because we woke you up? I'm really sorry about that. You can go back to bed if you like. We won't be any trouble." Obviously he hadn't said it quietly enough. Oh dieu... no... Grantaire was still posing but now he looked _hurt._ Oh _Dieu_. Hurt... oh...

He hurriedly tried to think of _something_ to say... and despite his all-but full cup... "No... while I'm up I'll have some of that coffee."

Grantaire refilled his cup and looked at Maurice with heart-breaking kicked-dog Daniel's horror, Maurice returned the look with interest and then _both_ of them turned the looks on _him_. His Joli had long ago perfected the art of looking like a wounded puppy out in the cold on Christmas night who will starve in the next two seconds if the angels don't give him some milk.

"...please... stop doing that." Please. Please... _please_... I'll paint the house, I'll clean the floors I'll wash your favorite braising dish. Anything.

"...what? What did I do? Did I do something wrong? I'm sorry!"

Grantaire chimed in, still with the wounded old dog with _cancer_ look. "I didn't _do_ anything! I haven't moved. I'm just _sitting_ here!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry. You're all right." He downed his coffee fast. Too fast.

His Joli looked at him plaintively and patted his arm while sipping his coffee. "Are you sure? I'll stop whatever it was, I promise."

"It's fine." Between that look and the hopeful perky twinkle Grantaire was sending him over _his_ coffee cup, what _was_ he to do? He gave in with as much grace as he could muster, and patted Maurice on the back. "It's nothing. Tell me about what you need me to do."

"Oh, well we have to find out who it was who turned you all in to the authorities! He's still out there you know." Joly stopped and screwed up his forehead in thought. "...or she. It could've been a she."

**"**Women. Can't trust them. Unless they're my mother. And she's dead, so if you see her - don't trust her." Grantaire nodded at them both, eyes half-closed and seemed completely unaware of the fact that he had just said something startling.

For that matter, so did Maurice, who just nodded gaily. "Oh, I won't!"

**"**...Right." Dieu... here's the deal. I rub my eyes and they go away and the world goes back to normal, oui? And then I enter the church and become a priest to thank you. He rubbed his eyes and was a little relieved when nothing happened. He would have been a very bad priest. " ...Okay. How are we doing this?"

Rather to his mild disgust, Maurice turned imediately to look at Grantaire. As though their resident drunk could do no wrong.

Grantaire smiled happily. Was that happily? Daniel had never _seen_ him happy, so he couldn't tell. "...Well. We need to find out who the others trust and might talk to. And then we need to find out which of them is a government spy."

"But that's a lot of people!" Maurice said.

"We can always ask the actors to help!"

Not only was this whole thing obviously punctuated with more exclamation marks than was really healthy, but Daniel was getting worried about Maurice. Talking to Grantaire - fine. His Joli was a soft-hearted and a _good_ man who would take care of his friends even when they were drunk troublemakers. But... this was dangerous. This could be really _really_ dangerous.

"He's got actor friends and they helped disguise us last time." Joli was saying as though it was one of the world's greatest secrets.

**"**...Grantaire, excuse us will you?" He nodded with what he hoped was politeness, knocked the seat over as he got up, and led Maurice into his bedroom by the elbow with as much gentleness as he could. His friend gave him a rather owl-like stare of complete bewilderment, and sat down on the bedspread and began trying to smooth out the creases one at a time.

"...Joli, do you really think you should be _helping_ him?" It was not a question that Danile had supposed really needed to be asked.

**"**Of course! Someone's got to! "

**"**But he's going to get you hurt. I don't like this. He's obviously drunk." Daniel was a little worried that he couldn't _smell_ it, but obviously Grantaire had just found some... odorless... alcohol. Or something.

" ..._is_ he? "

What? Daniel sat on the bed next to Maurice and looked at him seriously. "He's _always_ drunk." Come on ami. We've both talked about this.

Startlingly, Maurice argued, pushing at him a little to try and smooth out the creases he was creating. "Not _always_."

"Mostly." And I'm not _always_ unlucky. And you're not _always_ sick. "...ami... I don't want you to get hurt. He's talking crazy."

**"**So does Enjolras." Stubbornly. Joly scowled a little at the creases and gave up with a huff.

**"**Enjolras is different." He was too tired for this and it was almost like... Dieu... Maurice defending Grantaire to _him_? This was... wrong. So. Wrong.

"'Cause he wants the save the people instead of eight specific people?"

Oh... oh dear. Oh dear, that was a point. He frowned in an attempt to formulate his answer in a way that might satisfy his Joli. Why couldn't I be smarter? "Because he's... he's not a drunk who sits around cafes all the time. He knows what he's doing. Grantaire -" there was probably a polite way to say it but he just... couldn't... think of it. "...he's... he's just... _trouble_."

"But he's come through before. You're not still sitting in prison, are you?" Was his friend _angry_ with him? For being worried?

He sighed. **"**I wouldn't bank on that luck lasting, Joli".

"It could. What else would we do? Sit around and wait for the next move?" Maurice was not convinced. He was _smart_. He didn't _want_ to let things just happen to everyone. But... brave and smart and wonderful... he was going to get _hurt_.

"Maybe. I don't want you to get _hurt_, dammit."

**"**I'll be _fine_! Promise!" Maurice smiled a little and patter his hand. "Come with us and see for yourself!"

"Right. Okay. Whatever you say, Joli." Daniel sighed. Well. If that was the only way to keep him safe from Scara-Gran-Person's plans of Drunken Stupidity and Bravery.

"I knew you'd see it." And is was almost worth it to see him smile like that. No. No I am not going to start adding to my list of Ways Joli Might Die. Not now. Maybe later. In bed. So I have nightmares. Again.

"Oui oui. All right." He opened the door. "Let's make sure your leader isn't trashing our kitchen."

Grantaire, as it turned out, was laid out on the bench and sleeping like a baby. He had used his strong-enough-to-peel-ice-off-Enjolras'-voice Coffee to write odd little notes on the bench before lying down like a corpse, folded hands and all, and going to sleep with every sign of ease. Maurice looked at him in some uncertainty, and gave a little yawn. Thank the bon dieu the coffee was wearing off. Dieu. "Oh oui. Not drunk at all." His voice was perhaps a little sharp.

**"**I didn't know. I was half asleep." Thank heavens that sounded normal.

With a sigh, Daniel picked Grantaire up - and yes, the man might be thin but he obviously had a ton's worth of absinthe in his liver, because he was _heavy_ - and carried him over to the sofa before giving Maurice an exasperated little smile. "_Really_."

"Mm hmmm." Maurice yawned again and ruffled his hair, blinking.

And Daniel melted. What had he ever done to make him lucky enough to _deserve_ a homme like Maurice Joly in his life? He could _never_ be good enough to make up for it. "Go on cher. Off to bed." He patted his shoulder and gave him a little shove towards the bedrooms. "He'll still be here when we wake up."

Maurice gave him a nod and shuffled off, and Daniel followed suit, fell into bed and had strange and terrifying dreams. So strange that he forgot about the other strangeness of the night until he wandered into the living room and found a confused looking GrandR perusing their bookcase and frowning at the settee. "Uh... morning..."

Grantaire stared at him with an eyebrow raised to such an Enjolraic angle that Daniel caved, turned on his heel and hurried into Joly's room to wake him. It was, after all, _his_ Scaramouche.


	6. The Loss Of An Illusion

**A/N Not the main update, since we thought this chapter's a little too short for a full update. Think of it as a bonus. :3 Another chapter will be posted late tomorrow or early the day after.  
**

Sleep: possibly the most beautiful, beautiful thing in the world. The support of a bed. The heavy embrace of blankets. The hand on his arm trying to shake him awake.

…_that_ was not beautiful.

"Nnnnmnnnnh. G'way," Joly muttered, turning over and trying to bury himself further.

Somebody laughed. "Your Scaramouche is in our living room looking lost."

Daniel, then. But Scara...? "M'…my…what?"

Daniel poked his shoulder, probably meaning to be good-natured. It went unappreciated. "Scaramouche. Remember?"

Nnnnnnnnnnnnno-oh _damn_. He sat up so quickly that he almost fell out of bed. "Yes – _merde_!"

Daniel just laughed. "That's it."

Maurice could feel himself blushing horribly as the bits and pieces of the night before started coming back. "Oh dieu...I don't even remember half of what...I remember waking you up...and being spastic..."

"Spastic, that's a good word for it." Daniel sat down next to him and grinned pleasantly. At least he wasn't angry. Come to think of it, Daniel was being surprisingly tolerant of Grantaire. He wasn't entirely sure whether or not to count this as a success.

"I'd better get up then. I hope we didn't break anything or scandalize the landlady or anything..." He pushed the covers back and realized he was still in his clothes, or in his clothes again, or _something_ like that. It really was a bit of a blur.

"No, no. You enlisted me into your plan to become heroes or something. And drank all our coffee except a tiny, tiny bit."

Maurice snapped his fingers. "Ah, right! We had some idiotic plan to track down whoever turned us in..." Funny what coffee did to you. Did to him. Something like that. It didn't seem to have that effect on the general population. Maybe he had an odd sensitivity.

"That's the one," Daniel said, looking very relieved. "...you changed your mind then, I hope. Dieu, Maurice, you had me worried."

"Ah, well, I'm sure he'll find some very logical way to make it not quite as idiotic," he said apologetically, running a distracted hand through his hair to make it lie flat..ter. "I'm not quite sure how he does it."

He blinked a bit, hoping that it would make Daniel look a little more convinced and reassured. It didn't. "…right. Well... I suppose we're still doing it then," Daniel said.

"Of course, if we already told him we would." Maurice looked at him a little pleadingly. "…did we?"

"…I think you did."

"Joly? L'Aigle?" Curses. That was Grantaire for sure. He winced slightly, not sure if he wanted to face the awkwardness that was almost guaranteed to follow.

Daniel sighed. "Of course, I'll help if you're helping."

Maurice forced himself into an upright position in some relief. "Thank you…"

"Yeah." Daniel grinned and pulled him out of bed. Maurice grinned back, a little. It was welcome to know that whatever was to ensue, he wasn't going to be alone.


	7. Great Lord Of Life And Death?

**A/N: And here's the main update! Check out the illustration over at devart. To Mlle Patria, Insanemistosingsmore and Bramblefox, many thanks. You guys have been with us from the beginning and your reviews make our day every time. We would not be having nearly as much fun with these stories if it weren't for you. :)  
**

The least he could do now that he had, to all appearances anyway, invaded Joly and L'aigle's home in the dead of night, scrawled thing on their bench in... was that coffee? That looked like coffee. Very strong... what did that even say? Grantaire had always held the opinion that any notes he wrote himself after the hour of midnight or the fifth drink, whichever came first, were essentially beyond illegible. **A+D+L=? Rabbits and Pears. **Had that ever meant anything? Anyway. Back to the point. As he had invaded the sanctified halls of Joly and L'aigle's residence with his old shoes and dusty clothes and half-moth-eaten coat, then the least he could do was make them some breakfast.

At least he _thought_ that was right. Having been some good five years outside of the kind of society which made any kind of point or effort to impose these kinds of rules on a person, he was no longer quite certain what was exactly _polite_ anymore. Sleeping on a settee the colour of very light pea-soup while smelling of coffee and books was probably_ not._ Luckily everything made a certain kind of methodical sense in this kitchen and although Joly did not apparently have the poetical good sense to store his bread in a box made out of the covers of several old Bibles, nor did he have sheafs of legal notes stacked between vegetables and dry goods until they'd gone almost hard enough to be wood so why bother forking out the money to replace them, then? Although Joly did not appear to have gone about his planning with any sense of whimsy at_ all, _Grantaire still managed to find what he wanted. And let's hope this will be polite enough to stop papa from being thrown out into the cold hard world of Reality that everyone loves going on about only when they haven't really experienced it, eh, lovelies?

Say what you will, the Gemini certainly ate well. Look, it's white bread. And cheese. And lovely... looooverly little strips of bacon. Oh splendid. Oh rapture. Oh am I _ever_ going to have to bring the family here some day. If I had a family, that is, I would certainly bring them and introduce them to the blue china and the silver and the very nice food.

Joly picked that moment to appear, rather rumpled looking but not exactly bearing the marks of a Zues-like fury on his brow.

"Morning," he nodded, now that _was_ polite and he _remembered_, so. L'aigle was propped in the doorway giving him a look of mingled amusement and annoyance. It was curious, Grantaire thought as he pushed the bacon around in the small pan he'd found stacked in the logical place of A Cupboard instead of on three books by Lamartine. Curious, and more curious over that curious that Joly - who he had always thought looked on him with annoyed resignation, often telegraphed over the top of glasses - now appeared to be almost fond of his company, while L'aigle, a generous-hearted fellow who was amis with Bahorel and even had come out with them carousing a couple of nights now seemed to be bordering on that very dangerous brink - a la step and voila, one falls over! - of positively disliking him.

**"**Morning..." Joly said, giving them both an awkward look.

He nodded, rather wearily. **"** ...I don't remember going to sleep."

"Oh...well, you did..."

"I'm sorry. I certainly didn't plan to." He couldn't quite help giving Maurice a very blank look. Dieu. Was it the tiredness - my fault and my apologies and all that, but an emergency, I swear - or the awkwardness that seemed to prompt his Harlequin into stating exactly that brilliant _level_ of obvious? Not that in his current crumpled and tired state Maurice Joly looked anything _like_ a Harlequin. He looked more like a boy who'd fallen asleep in his father's clothes.

"It's fine...what are you making?"

Um. He looked at the mess he was frying and reached an eloquent blank. "Um. Breakfast. Bread, cheese... a bit of meat. Sorry - thought you might be hungry." And here he was doing the wrong thing again. He really was sorry. Joly might not exactly be a bosom friend, after all he had L'aigle and there was the whole Issue With Being Friends With Men Who Were Called Grantaire... people had a lot of trouble with that bit. But he was a nice zig, a good cove, and the last thing Perceval Grantaire wanted to do was offend him. L'aigle did not help his mental state of being sorry about the breakfast and the sleeping and wondering what to call what he was cooking by shaking his bald shiny head and looking positively amused.

"No, it's fine," Joly said again, in a laid-back enough way that Grantaire actually thought he might be honestly sincere about this fine-ness thing.

**"**Good." he raised a questioning eyebrow at the both of them. "...what in heaven's name happened last night? There was coffee. And then it gets a bit vague." As in I can't remember what my notes mean and I'm pretty sure I did a lot of talking which is always a worrying thing vague.

Joly went red. "Ask Daniel. I'm a bit hazy too."

At this the redoubtable L'aigle offered him what was really quite a nice grin considering the circumstances. "Well... you were planning on asking all the others who they know so that you could locate the 'evil sinister fiend' who turned us in to the police. You also said I'm 'Pedrolino' and Enjolras is 'one-eyed' because he doesn't like you."

"I...oh yes, you _were_ Pedrolino!" Joly said, as though this revelation was _so_ much more surprising than Grantaire calling someone 'evil and sinister' and another More Important _someone_ one-eyed... dear _Dieu._

" ...well. That's certainly talkative of me." Both his eyebrows had gone up, and now he looked L'aigle up and down and raised them more. "You _do_ fit Pedrolino."

"I think we were both talking a lot." Joly had the sound of someone trying to be placating and reassuring at once and therefore not managing to do either particularly well.

L'aigle nodded and snagged a little bit of meat out of the pan before picking his way with some care back over to where Joly had perched on the stool, which - if Grantaire's hazy memory could be trusted - had played some sort of part in last night's goings on. "You _were_." There was rather a lot of emphasis on the word and Joly flushed again.

Merde. Grantaire felt his own cheeks grow uncomfortably warm and leant over the stovetop in an attempt to make it look natural. Oh _merde_. _Spouting_ off. Like a putain _grass_. And poor L'aigle... that was just... oh _merde. _He quickly served up the food in the hopes that this would make him look somewhat useful and placed them on the table. "Apologies, L'aigle. I don't think I was thinking straight last night." Damn. Damn damn damn, winecask. You stupid drunk fool. Can't even be a nuisance to your amis only _drunk_, you've got to go do it while _sober_ too.

Some sort of communing went on between the Gemini, L'aigle looking rather smug and Joly getting a little more flushed so that he really did look almost as red as his hair. My. It was L'aigle who spoke to let the uninitiated in on the joke, or whatever it was. "It's all right, GrandR. Booze gets the best of all of us sometimes."

"Thank you for that little homily, L'aigle." _Thank_ you. Just _lovely_. He sat down and studied his food furiously, picking and choosing each word and nuance as carefully as he could. "Very useful for future reference when I'm actually drunk, unlike last night." And that, m'sieur, is polite. Very polite.

Joly hemmed awkwardly. "Er...the food...looks good."

"So you _weren't_ drunk." Unfortunately ... ha ha ha... L'aigle just couldn't drop it, even with the Very Polite framing Grantaire had given him.

Grantaire eyed him once, up and down again. If it weren't for the fact that he was honestly getting quite fond of Harlequin and belting his twin one would do nothing to ensure Joly continued to hold this weird sort of friendly tollerance for drunkards sleeping on his couch and waking him up at ungodly hours of the morning... be _careful_, L'aigle. I've _punched_ men for less, and they were a lot bigger than you. "I'm not constantly drunk."

"...um... the food looks good." L'aigle had a turn at blushing, which even tinged his bald pate with a faint pink, and turned his attention to said food.

"Good. I'm glad we all like it."

He rolled his eyes and drank his coffee, which was a lot weaker than last night and wasn't _that_ a good thing? Everyone ate in silence, Joly filling his mouth in an _obvious_ attempt to avoid having to talk while L'aigle kept glancing up at both of them as if to say 'did... did that just happen?'. The homme looked a little... unnerved. Hah. Yes, the sot has _teeth_, though none quite as sharp as the lamb, I've noted. After coffee... and food, he felt better and less liable to snap at balding eagles. "Let me see if I have this straight. The plan was to discover everyone the rest of the Amis know, and grill them individually until we locate a government spy?"

"I believe so...I think I said that sounded like a lot of work." Joly had rediscovered his powers of speech, then.

"...hmm. Yes. And I said we could invite my dear friends from the theatrical society to aid us."

L'aigle looked both stunned and a little ill, and proved he had not lost the incredible art of opening his mouth and saying amazingly insulting things without even trying." You were serious?"

"... mmmhmm." Was there more coffee? Could he have more coffee? It was very _good_ coffee.

"Daniel," Joly took over the story, and would no doubt make a better job of it since he knew L'Aigle far better than Grantaire did. "...these _are_ the people who didn't ask any questions when he told them he needed help breaking someone out of prison."

" ...I need friends like that." L'aigle said, and Grantaire laughed, amused to see Joly laughing too. Oh _Dieu._

"...the way I see it," he accepted some more coffee from Joly and stirred several spoons of sugar into it. "...we can discount most family members considering all Amis were arrested. So we can split up across the Amis - discover what _other_ people they know _might_ be suspicious... and then go from there."

"Okay...that makes sense." Joly nodded, and even L'aigle looked halfway convinced, something which appeared to worry him.

He smiled, the thin world-weary smile of the man behind the masks. "Of course. I _am_ Scaramouche."

"Do I have to say it like that?" L'aigle placed a hand over his chest and puffed out his cheeks. "I _am_ Pedrolino?"

Joly giggled, and Grantaire found himself grinning.

"Deeper timbre, Pedrolino."

L'aigle tried. "Peedroliino."

"Better. Come on. Both of you can join me at the theatre." He waved a hand and tried to sound more at east than he felt. Dear god why were they _following_ him? All he'd wanted was for Joly to help, perhaps give him a hand figuring out what to do next or even maybe ask a few questions or something... but why. Why. _Why_ were they following him?

It was going to get everyone in trouble eventually.


	8. Man Is The Child Of His Own Work

For most men, it seemed, work was a way to get away from other problems, something you could throw yourself into in order to forget cheating wives and starving children and shoes with more holes than Madame Bourgeois' most _stunning_ piece of imported Spanish lace. Alexandre Feuilly had never found this to be so. It could have been the nature of his work, it could have been his admittedly reflective personality, but even when he was concentrating on not letting the cheap and fragile fan-sticks snap between his fingers he was always thinking about Things. Feuilly was sparing with his mental capitals, but always assigned _un grand té_ to the subject or subjects of his musings. It wasn't that it made him sound more grandiose – which he hoped to avoid – it was just that they were usually important enough (in his opinion) to merit the wayward capitalization. Today his mental discourse, usually involving such subjects as the ideal level of the State's involvement with the People and the best manner in which to convince the landlord he really was going to have the rent on time, had been unapologetically taken over by Grantaire. Specifically, the issue of Grantaire's being recently expelled from the meetings at Musain.

There was not and had never been any love or friendship lost between himself and Grantaire. They had both seen hard things in the world, and reacted by going in completely opposite directions. And without a doubt, neither of them was likely to begin to trust the other any time soon. Still, Feuilly didn't _hate_ Grantaire, and it didn't take a lot of time spent around the man to realize that he wasn't exactly the most likely man in the world to turn in the Society. In fact, he'd already come up with several very logical arguments against the idea. But even once he came up with plausible oppositions to those arguments, Feuilly simply couldn't make the idea of Grantaire turning them in mesh with everything he had previously seen and heard of the man. It didn't feel _right_. And that had been bothering him all day.

His mind continued to work away as he claimed his jacket and cap and exchanged the perfunctory goodbyes that they only kept up to reassure themselves that they were still men and not slaves. What if it were really not Grantaire? If so, who had it been? Did Enjolras realize the implications if the betrayal had not come from within after all? Perhaps Combeferre did; Combeferre could be astonishingly wise. Yet Enjolras' behavior at the meeting had seemed to put an end to all discussion of the matter. Despite the considerable time he'd spent so far in the other members' company, he rarely gave any attention to matters not strictly political, and so Feuilly did not quite like to draw conclusions about their relationships to each other. It seemed to him, however, that when Enjolras and Combeferre clashed on an issue it could generally be counted on that Combeferre would, at least, end in modifying Enjolras' views. In matters concerning Grantaire, though…

Oh, dieu, speak of the devil. There was the man himself – Grantaire, that is – standing on the street outside, seeming to be waiting for someone. By the momentary satisfaction in his suspiciously clear eyes as he looked up toward Feuilly – for him.

"Hello, Feuilly," he said, falling into stride alongside him.

"Oh, hello, Grantaire," he replied, memory jumping to supply some kind of obvious thing the drunk could want with him. Nothing.

"How was your day?"

Feuilly's thought process screamed to a halt and promptly reversed itself. If Grantaire waiting for him – no, even _talking_ to him – was suspicious, Grantaire asking after his welfare – and in such a pleasant tone – was _doubly_ suspicious. Best play it straight and see how it goes. "Oh…it was all right. About normal."

"Good. Good. That's nice," Grantaire said, which only served to set off another of Feuilly's warning signals. While it was true that he was now acting slightly more normally (read: drunken), the last words Feuilly could remember them exchanging were something along the lines of "You're in my way." And now Grantaire was using words like _good_ and _nice_? Something had to be up.

"…so what brings you?" he asked, shrugging his jacket on as he walked in an effort to assume an appearance of total innocence.

"Passing by. Wanted a familiar face." Grantaire shrugged, turning up his chin to the cloudy Paris sky flamboyantly. "Business going well?"

"…can't complain…" he sighed. He supposed he _could_, as things had been a bit slow today, but it would defeat his purpose of making the other man talk – and really he was lucky to be employed at all.

"I appear to have had a very bad night," Grantaire said suddenly, with a jarring and badly-formed laugh. "I end up nearby - no idea where I came from or where I was going. I saw your shop and thought - Aha, Feuilly. Someone who will make sense in this crazy world." He looked down at Feuilly (not metaphorically at all – only literally. Childhood malnutrition tended to leave one short of stature in adulthood) with a half-crazed, slightly drunken, almost pleading, definitely over-the-top look that was at great contrast with his former attitude and only served to make him even more suspect.

"It's a crazy world for sure." He couldn't help but chuckle just the _slightest_ bit at the remark, but only because it _was_ true. He supposed it couldn't hurt to let Grantaire think his guard was down, either.

Grantaire grinned back. "Truth. It is. An evil terrible crazy world."

Feuilly wasn't sure yet what to make of his behavior and so he merely nodded. "Yes…"

"I think my brother lives about here... I wonder if I was trying to visit him," Grantaire said as if he were talking about the likelihood of rain that evening or the quality of the product sold by M. le Boulangier over there.

"You don't remember?" It didn't seem like the kind of thing one could forget.

Grantaire leveled a look at him that clearly said, _You, monsieur, did not remember to put your brain into your skull this morning – am I right?_ "…I was _drunk_."

As one who practically never got drunk if he could avoid it, Feuilly didn't exactly know how valid this might be and accordingly let it go. "Ah. Right."

"I hope I wasn't going to visit him," Grantaire said, dropping the look and appearing to throw himself to whimsy again. "I'd hope even while drunk I have better taste."

He did not find this particularly funny – he was rather of the opinion families ought to stick together – but gave a noncommittal snort of laughter anyway, to encourage Grantaire to keep talking. Laughing at all was out of character for him, but he hoped that Grantaire was himself too far out of character to notice.

"Let me tell you about my brother, Feuilly," he continued. "I have two. Both are lawyers. And this one is a particularly obnoxious lawyer."

"More so than the average?"

"Indeed."

"Hm. Anyway, what about him?" he asked, trying not to sound either unusually interested or completely bored.

"He's a bastard," Grantaire said cheerfully. "Not literally, unfortunately, which means he still speaks to our father. Which is a lovely thing to say about anyone, I don't think."

"Is he really." To be honest, he wasn't at all interested in Grantaire's brother, and it didn't appear that the conversation was going to go anywhere towards explaining the sudden interest in him.

"Mmmhm. Feuilly…"

"Yes, Grantaire?"

"How many people you know, outside of the Amis?" Grantaire asked, with an air of trying to be casual. "Like…_friends_."

Hmmmm, appearances could be deceiving. He focused his full attention on the very suspicious behavior of his companion, which had just gotten about ten times _more_ suspicious. "…not really that many."

"Yeah…?" Was it only his imagination, or was Grantaire acting more and more drunk by the minute? He had seemed perfectly sober at the beginning of their conversation. "I don't have any friends. What's it like?"

He shrugged. "It's pretty nice." To tell the truth, he didn't _have_ friends. Just acquaintances, and then the Society.

"Is it?" Whatever Grantaire actually was, he now seemed to be very drunk. And melancholy. "…what does a person with friends _do_ with friends?"

"I suppose you'd really better ask someone with more friends," he replied offhandedly. "We don't do much, just see each other in passing a lot."

There was one spot between the shop and the flat, where the paving-stones were loose, that Feuilly's feet had simply learned to carry him around; Grantaire's feet had no such knowledge and he tripped spectacularly. Feuilly jumped aside, expecting him to fall over drunkenly, but Grantaire caught himself…effortlessly…with a stiffness no drunk man ought to have…

"…that sounds pleasant," Grantaire said, suddenly staggering once more.

Feuilly watched him in suspicion. "Yeah. It is, I s'pose."

"What kind of places do you meet up?" Grantaire said, slightly slurred now.

"Oh...th' shop, on the street, of course I see my neighbors all the time." What kind of questions _were_ these?

Grantaire made a noise of interest. "Oh, aye."

He shrugged. "It's not like I live in an entirely separate universe. I _can_ be social." Contrary to what certain people surnamed Courfeyrac might occasionally attempt to imply.

"Well apparently, I can't," he smirked. It looked exceedingly odd, causing Feuilly to wonder again whether or not he was actually drunk.

"You're always hanging around with _someone_," he said with a slightly raised eyebrow.

Grantaire laughed. "Oh aye, but they're not friends."

Feuilly felt confident enough to shoot him a loaded question. "Hence the sudden interest in my habits in that area?"

"...just curious as to the habits of the more fortunate, Feuilly."

He had to laugh, a laugh that wasn't totally contrived and that consequently sounded much bitterer than he had meant it to. Emotions – their meanings, the methods of expressing them – were, admittedly, not his strong point. "What a day when _I'm_ the more fortunate!"

Grantaire laughed along, but he didn't mean it either; his eyes stayed as searching and blank as before. "…mmm…well this is I, my dear Feuilly."

"Ah…of course."

"Exactly," Grantaire said. This wasn't quite going anywhere. As much as he disliked the idea of probing, he was going to have to be a bit cozier with Grantaire if he wanted to find out what exactly he was after.

"I imagine you…don't get attached easily then," he tried casually.

"…not fast, not quick, not easy." Perhaps he'd been a tad too obvious; something like recognition had just flashed behind Grantaire's eyes. And speaking of recognition…there was something…something vaguely familiar about the way Grantaire was acting. A certain…a certain…he just couldn't catch what it was. Perhaps it would come to him later.

"Mhm. I suppose I can sympathize," Feuilly said. He was uncomfortable with revealing so much, even – _especially_ – to Grantaire, but it was better than lying. "Though I've been around the Amis long enough that I've gotten over that with them, now."

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. "…right."

He returned the gesture. "You don't believe me?"

Grantaire made a little irritated 'tch' and staggered slightly as he drawled, "...oh please. What's that say 'bout me, then?"

"I didn't say a thing 'bout you." Two could play this. He found himself matching Grantaire's drawl in a way that would usually irritate him; in most cases the _last_ thing Feuilly wanted was for his accent to come out and put him at even more of a disadvantage. Better to sound Parisian and at least a _little_ educated, oui? In this case, however, it might benefit him to be a little rougher around the edges. Gaining confidence and all that. It was similar to how he imagined one was supposed to make friends.

"Pfft. , 'spose I'm maybe a little sensitive then," Grantaire said in a vague tone.

Feuilly shrugged. "Well, what with Enjolras picking on you all the time..."

"He's a dedicated man," Grantaire said with a very thin, drawn-out grin that he also had the feeling he'd seen somewhere else. Strange, considering it was one of Grantaire's signature expressions.

"I know, but you've gotta wonder, you know?" he said, trying not to look as if he were examining Grantaire's mien as closely as he was.

"Wonder what?" Grantaire's eyes were open wide in ways that most people would associate with children and bluebells and innocence of all sorts. Feuilly couldn't see anything but assumed innocence, and very poorly assumed innocence at that.

"Whether he's really always right," he explained.

"Now y'know, I thought that particular little trait was what made him dislike me," Grantaire said thoughtfully- _thoughtfully?_ Feuilly almost couldn't keep track of which way the man, normally emotionally sedentary, was going.

"Which trait?"

"Thinking he's not quite always right despite..." Grantaire paused and jabbed a finger into the air. "th' angelic voice... and general infallibility."

A carefully directed noise (he doubted he could ever produce one that was genuine) sounding very much like 'snrk', coupled with a smile. "'Specially when he's jumping to conclusions, hm?"

Grantaire smiled back. "When 'bout my good self, I admit I become a little less willing to accept his general omniscience."

"Makes sense, that." Not a lie – it did. Or at least it did if one took Grantaire's point of view. Which he was currently doing.

"Especially as he was mistaken on that account."

_Oh_? Feuilly's ears perked a little. "Oh was he?"

"Didn't I tell you?" Grantaire said with a very big grin of the sort that _always_ unsettled Feuilly and caused him to start finding excuses to be somewhere else. It was the adder's grin on facing the dormouse. "Pure as the driven snow."

Feuilly reminded himself that sometimes an adder might only be a grass snake with diamonds painted on but strapped on a little mental armor anyway. "No offense t'you, but you don't exactly project th' image of driven snow."

That dangerous grin widened. "Is it th' facial hair?"

"Could be," he said, squinting a bit for show. Or as a joke. Dieu, when was the last time he'd done _anything_ as _either_?

"I'll have to do something about that," Grantaire said with a not-very-drunk-at-all head toss. "If y're asking, I didn't hand you in to the government oppressors."

He had not been asking, but thank you anyway Grantaire. "Got the slightest idea who did?"

"Not the slightest," he shrugged. "You?"

"Sorry, not a clue. It's not as if I just go around telling people, 'Oh, by the way, I'm going to a secret, illegal meeting tonight at nine, see you there?'" He did not quite manage to keep the sarcasm out of his voice but supposed it didn't matter.

"Of course not," Grantaire said, very reasonably, very soberly. Feuilly was now quite convinced that Grantaire, for reasons of his own, was not only totally sober but also attempting to look drunk as a way of seeming more harmless. He had to admit that if the act had been better, it would have worked very well. What reasons, then?

Something suddenly fell into place.

"...and no, none of those friends of mine you were asking about have any idea I've ever even been to that area of _town_," he said, folding his arms across his chest. Part of him wanted to be irritated that Grantaire had suspected him, and part of him wanted to admire the man for taking on such a project. The admiring part looked like it was winning.

"No offense," Grantaire said, with a shrug that acknowledged he had been caught.

"You're trying to clear your name, aren't you?" Feuilly asked, slightly more confident.

"…something like that," Grantaire admitted.

"You realize it's probably not going to work very well once you get to, say, Jehan," he said. "I don't think he'd give you the time of day at the moment." He suddenly realized how irritatingly didactic that had probably sounded.

"I think I'll manage." Grantaire _did_ look mildly irritated…Feuilly took a slightly different tack, not quite sure why he was suddenly bothering to get along with Grantaire. Maybe because he was sober for once, or actually had a damn good idea going.

"Suit yourself," he shrugged. "I mean, if you want help, though...I want to find out who did it as much as you do."

"That's very amicable of you, Feuilly. I think I've got everyone covered, though," Grantaire said seriously.

"A'right, then," he said, surprised to find that when Grantaire took the trouble to be serious…he actually made quite a bit of sense.

"As you can imagine, I have quite a lot to do," he said. "If you'll excuse me, Feuilly."

For the first time, Feuilly found himself being almost amicable to the man. "Certainly, Grantaire."

Grantaire grinned back, this time with a much friendlier look. So there was a grass snake under the grease-paint after all, oui? "Au'voir. May the evil government forces not trouble your evening."

"And the same to you," Feuilly said, nodding solemnly. They parted ways at the corner and he was left to wander home by himself, possessed of one more piece of the puzzle of their recent imprisonment but no nearer to deciphering the whole. So Grantaire was innocent, hm? Then who had actually turned them all in? And none of this went anywhere toward uncovering the great double mystery of Messrs. Scaramouche and Harlequin, or why the sober Grantaire gave him such an unsettling feeling of _déjà vu_…


	9. A Student of Man

**A/N - For those reading who are as geeky as we are, yes the texts Combeferre is studying from _are_ historically accurate medical texts. **

"Three principles reduced the component parts of the animal body, to solids, liquids, and added spirits," Thus said Scuderi. A fine translation, though some of the syntax was odd enough to make Eugene suspect that not all of the original Italian had transferred to the French. Added spirits. Hmm. An interesting way to phrase the life-force that was what made a man a man. What was mingled in these spirits - this mix of ether and breath and life - that created the Emotions, the Impulses that drove a man to love or kill. To struggle through hard-wearing days in silent toil for those he cared for. To beat and bruise and humiliate. To ignore the less favored... to step on the poor... to see a starving child and not stretch out a hand.

Spirits.

But this was a case for examinations, not for philosophy. He had all the required texts in neat piles, alphabetically ordered. Of course he had already perused Scuderi's _Introduction a 'lhistorie de la medecine. _But even though it was twenty years old, it was still well worth reading again. Next in the piles before him were _Cours de Medecine Legale, Theorique et Pratique _by Belloc, which he had chosen as it seemed logical to mingle Augustin's papers with his own. It was often enough that he found himself in a Legal Lecture theatre taking notes while Enjolras gave his attention to something closer to his heart and the Cause. _Des Erruers Populaires Relatives a La Medicine_ by Richerand to remind that all would not always be simple, and because he sometimes felt Enjolras saw his studies as irrelevant and because it was a beautiful book - Cabanis' _Rapports du Physique Et Du Moral De L'Homme_. Which was possibly banned. But no one could ban books from those who truly wanted to learn. Notes and other tomes were neatly ordered over the table, and Eugene Combeferre worked with an industry that calmed his soul.

Until the knock came at his door, jarring a large portion of Scuderi loose from his memory. It was not Enjolras' knock, which was firm and certain and expected to be replied to in Capitals, threatening that the person knocking would shortly avail himself of the Republican Right to open the door and Ask Why You Weren't Answering very shortly. It was far more timid, and Eugene put down his pen, tucked his pencil behind his ear with a sigh, and rose to answer.

"Joly?" A nervous looking Maurice Joly was standing on his steps all but wringing his hands together. If this was another visit to complain of some new Nervous Disease he had contracted - _or_ to ask if Daniel Was Really All Right Please, Eugene was quite prepared to be terse.

"Hello."

"How can I help?" He raised an eyebrow. This is not a good time, Joly.

Joly, not being a mind-reader in any shape or form replied with a nervous, "You wouldn't happen to have a few free minutes?"

**"** ...certainly. Come in." He hid a sigh and opened the door wider to allow his fellow medical student inside. After all, he was second in the leadership of the Amis D'ABC. One of the duties of a good lieutenant is to care for those concerns which the other officers and members of the organization might have. Enjolras rarely had the time - or, if he were being completely honest, the interest - to do so.

Joly came in, still looking highly nervous. Not, of course, that this wasn't usual for their friendly Malade Imagianaire. But still... Eugene led him into the living area and shuffled a few of his papers to one side, noting several errors in the spelling of the Latin. Hmm. Obviously he had been distracted while writing it.

"...how can I help you, Maurice?"

"I...you've already had Michelaine's lectures, haven't you?"

"Yes, yes I have." That was pleasantly surprising. It did not explain in the slightest why Joly appeared to be as nervous as the time when he became convinced that all of the Amis had contracted the Bubonic Plague, but it was encouraging. A willingness to learn was always preceded with the thirst for knowledge and a talent for asking questions. While sometimes he doubted that Joly had a thirst for knowledge of any kind which did not relate to symptoms he might or might not currently have - he appeared to be developing the talent for questions, and Eugene was not about to discourage him. "Are you having troubles with the nervous system notations in Latin in the footnotes? I found those challenging."

Joly nodded, looking slightly relieved. "I am, I really just can't make heads or tails of them...is it in shorthand, or something?"

"Not quite." He reached for his own copy and thumbed through it. It had taken him several weeks to piece together the reasoning behind the various footnotes used in the tome, but the journey had been one of enlightenment and well worth the traveling. "There are two methods." He perched his glasses on the end of his nose and pointed at the page before him. "Pages 190-215 are in a shorthand based off a sort of rudimentary vowel system. Pages 250-279 however are straight Latin except translated by a German. If you use Germanic syntax it makes much more sense." The syntax had been what had almost defeated him until he had heard a German student reading a page of Latin aloud and then translating it into his native tongue. The arrangement of noun and verb, pronoun and article and preposition had fit together in smooth harmony. Brilliant. Bizarre, but brilliant.

"That's incredibly complicated." Joly sounded rather deflated.

Eugene remembered his lecturer saying something along the lines of no student actually bothering to translate the footnotes before. He hadn't quite been able to understand why. "Oh yes. But it's quite instructive, and historically a fascinating read."

"I imagine so."

"Anything else?" That appeared to be all he could do to answer the questions provided. Perhaps he would be able to get back to his study now. "I can give you my notes if you like."

"Oh, no, thank you. You don't have to. I think I can get it...did you say Germanic?" Joly fumbled in his pockets, looking for something apparently. Perhaps it was a notebook. Eugene had noticed that very few appeared to carry notebooks with themselves. Which was, in his opinion, a mistake. He always had a notebook on his person - often so that he could record Enjolras' thoughts and decisions at a moment's notice.

He picked up a fresh notebook from the table and handed it over. "Germanic and vowels."

" Vowels...honestly, I can't imagine why anyone would make a shorthand like that...it would be better off as a cipher."

"I do not claim to understand the mind that went behind it." He had presumed that it was a rather eccentric shorthand device used by the writers of the books to convey their meaning in the shortest space possible.

"Probably even the mind couldn't." Joly said, rather unfairly. After all, he hadn't _read_ the notes yet.

Still. It was hardly worth debating. He handed Joly the pencil stub he had fixed behind his ear and nodded noncommittally. "Quite possibly. Anything else I can help you with?"

"Oh...I'm just worried." Joly was biting his lip in his signature _way_. Eugene had often considered telling him that it was a bad habit which was going to cause extensive nerve damage eventually, but that would probably only cause him to bite his lip more in sheer worry - so it really did not seem at all worth the effort.

He suppressed a sigh. Be charitable, Eugene. "...a cold?"

"No. No, I've been fairly healthy actually."

"...that's good." Surprisingly good. Joly didn't sound as though he completely believed what he had said, but at least he had _said_ it. Belief was a wonderful thing. Sometimes if one asserts to oneself a sensation or state of being or notion enough times - it can follow that one will eventually believe it. "What else can I help you with?"

Joly was avoiding his gaze and nibbling at the pencil. "It's just about the last few weeks."

"Ah." Grantaire. Scaramouche. Prison. The usual. He took a breath, closed his textbook and resettled his glasses. The Lieutenant, not the student, was needed now. "Well...in what way? What worries you, Joly?"

"Well...it's not as if we really know who turned us all in." Joly used the second-person inclusive plural pronoun quite as nervously as though he himself had been incarcerated along with the rest of them. Eugene peered at him contemplatively. While he in no way wished that Maurice had been subjected to that kind of trauma, it did leave certain inclusive plural pronouns... unwarranted.

"True. I'm afraid there are some doubts as to whether Grantaire could have managed it." he said, and tried not to let his skepticism about inclusive pronouns show.

He seemed to be doing a good enough job, for Joly didn't make any comment, perhaps blinking a little too wide at the thought of CapitalR being thought incapable. The two men had never been very close, so perhaps that was to be expected. Still, he did appear to agree with what was becoming the popular consensus. Grantaire was _not_ a sufficient scapegoat. "It...really could have been anyone who knows us, or whom we've told about meetings or the group."

"I would hope that no one tells _anyone_ about the meetings or the group." He frowned a little. What point was Joly trying to make here?

"Well, not casually, anyway."

Not _casually_? He stood up very straight and folded his arms, frowning far more sternly. "Not _ever_. You haven't been talking to anyone about the group, have you Joly? This is meant to be a _secret_ group with _secret_ meetings." Secret. As in no one else is meant to _know_ about it. If Joly had been talking out of turn... perhaps Enjolras _had_ been mistaken about his informer. Perhaps it was all down to a nervous slip of the tongue.

"_I_ wouldn't." Joly frowned back, earnest and defensive at once. "But we all had to find out about it at some point so we could join, didn't we?"

Semantics, pure and simple. "There is a difference to offering an invitation to someone after they have been properly vetted by at least three senior members of the group, and talking about it with just anyone in one's personal circle."

Instead of explaining himself or dropping the subject, Joly peered at him in... something... curiosity? Concern? Interest? "So you don't know anyone who might know about us either, then?" ...accusation. Accusation. He was actually... _seriously_ accusing...

"..._if_ you are asking _me_ if I've been talking out of turn and endangering the Cause?" Eugene said in a voice which was every bit as chilly as Enjolras' famous glares and twice as scathing. "The answer is _no_."

Joly cringed a little. "I wasn't asking you any such thing. I just thought that if anything like that had happened, you'd know about it."

"Ah." He softened a little. Joly. Really. How had he ever thought that _Joly_ would accuse _anyone_ of _anything_. It was like thinking the man could be capable of running around in disguise and freeing the helpless prisoners of the state. Ridiculous. "Well, no. In all honesty, Maurice, I feel it is likely that the answer will be as simple as Augustin first posed."

"Ah...you really think so?" Joly looked worried and miserable. In fact he looked positively forlorn, like ... a _puppy_... Oh dear. Perhaps he'd been a bit too harsh. Yes. he really had. After all, Joly just needed reassurance that they weren't all going to be arrested again.

He tried to sound as kind and reassuring as he could. "Yes. I believe so. There doesn't seem to be any other logical explanation." And really, despite Bahorel and Courfeyrac's arguments, despite his urgings to Enjolras to be merciful to the poor benighted moth that singed himself on the divine flame of the cause... what other explanation _was_ there?

"I suppose. It doesn't really make sense, but I suppose."

"I agree. I doubt it was intentionally. As Dominic and Lucien said, Grantaire would hardly have the nerve to turn us in to the government. However he does talk a lot. I wouldn't worry about it too much, Joly. Enjolras is taking care of it." That should be enough to make any worries moot, after all. Any except his own, as he was relatively certain that Enjolras would not be either gracious or kind to their Winecask. Grantaire, that was. Not Winecask. Disturbing how easily one could get used to using... derogatory... nicknames.

Joly looked perhaps a little more convinced, though there was something rather odd about his expression. Eugene couldn't place it. Not quite amusement, no. Joly looked to nervous to be amused. But... something. "Mhm. Well, all right then. I worry too much."

"Yes." He nodded. Thank you for making the century's biggest understatement, ami. "Well. It was nice of you to drop in, Maurice."

"It was nice to see you. I suppose I'd better go and look over those footnotes now." Joly began to edge towards the door, eying him in a way that showed his emphatic agreement had not gone unnoticed. Oh well.

"Of course. Always happy to help." He closed the door behind Joly and returned to the table, sitting for a few minutes in contemplation of the strange inconsistencies of the visit. Footnotes which no one read. Answers which Joly had not written down. Questions about talking out of turn to friends. Accusations which weren't. Almost-amusement over the incapabilities of Grantaire. It was a very strange puzzle, and what was more Joly hadn't sneezed once.

Eugene... for once in his life... was more inclined to be suspicious than studious. Perhaps Enjolras would be able to enlighten him later. Perhaps it was all nothing. But even so, the number of mysterious happenings surrounding the Amis in the last few weeks was getting to an absurd level.


	10. All Alone My Prince?

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! 3 Another post will be up Saturday/Sunday. Enjoy!**

Dominic Bahorel still had to say, it was very funny business going on with Grantaire. Even after he and Luc'd gone to talk with Combeferre, and Combeferre had _presumably_ gone to talk with Enjolras, he hadn't seen the man at all. It was pretty usual for them to see each other outside of meetings, given the number of different restaurants and wine-shops they both frequented, but since the last meeting he hadn't heard or seen a single thing of his friend. And where Grantaire was concerned, no news was generally _not_ good news. He was pretty sure Grantaire could take care of himself, but still – he wouldn't pass up a chance to see him again.

At the moment, since Luc had deserted him _again_ and all of his other friends seemed to be giving him a pretty wide berth, he was sitting drinking in a wine-shop.

Alone.

It wasn't any fun.

Ah, but here was someone to distract him! L'Aigle pulled up a chair beside him and gave him that signature offhanded grin. "Can I join you?"

He grinned back. "Absolutely. Beginning to wonder if the world was avoiding me. Let me buy you a drink?"

"Thanks. Won't argue if you insist," the Eagle said, leaning forward onto the table. Dominic ordered the drink and sat back, in a considerably better mood.

"How's it going for you, ami?" he asked.

"Can't complain," L'Aigle said fairly. "Actually wanted to ask you something."

He waved his hand. "Ask away."

"…about Grantaire," L'Aigle said with a small grin.

"Hey, yeah, about him," Bahorel said with interest. "Have you seen the bastard? It's like Enjolras drove him into hiding or off of a cliff or something."

"I saw him the other day in passing," he said, shrugging. "I doubt he wants to see us much at the moment after the meeting, eh?"

He gave a snort of laughter and leaned over slightly to accommodate the very busty waitress setting L'Aigle's wine down. "You aren't taking that _seriously_, are you?"

"Hey…I don't like to think that of anyone," he said, taking the wine with an appreciative smile. "And though I rather like him – don't think he's really capable of something like that."

"I don't either."

"So who'd you think did it?" That was one of the reasons he liked talking to L'Aigle better than he liked talking to Combeferre, Dominic thought. Homme preferred to cut to the chase.

"Probably the damn government spying on us," Bahorel said, imitating Feuilly's eternal paranoia. Though now he mentioned it, that almost sounded plausible. But only if you were paranoid and humorless like Feuilly was.

L'Aigle seemed to get the joke, as he laughed too. "Oh oui. That's definitely possible. Or maybe someone let something slip to one of their friends." A disarming smile that didn't quite hide the fact that he was…possibly serious about it. How odd. "...It would be my luck to have done that. I don't think I did, though."

He couldn't help but laugh at the idea. "Eh, well…that's a possibility too." He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Accused pleads innocent."

L'Aigle laughed again and shook his head. "That's all you remember from that class, isn't it?"

"How could you think that of me?" Bahorel said in mock indignation. "You know I learned that from hanging around at scandalous trials, dear Eagle."

"Heaven forbid I should ever accuse you of going to a _class_, Dominic, ami," L'Aigle replied with a grin.

"Classes are for academics, and academics are boring. They've got no life in them."

"Combeferre has always seemed just a step or two away from the morgue," he nodded. "...anyway, I have to go check on Maurice, ami. He said he wasn't feeling well, so I am meant to be getting him some powders for his throat. If I see GrandR again in passing, you want I should tell him you're looking for him?"

"Yeah, that'd be real good of you," Dominic said, still feeling slightly annoyed that _L'Aigle_ had seen Grantaire and th'omme hadn't even bothered to look _him_ up. "Don't let Maurice dose himself to death."

"Oh I won't," L'Aigle said, and then he was gone.

And Dominic was alone again.

It was a circumstance that irked him more than he liked to admit.


	11. The Danger Of HalfDiscoveries

He'd almost gotten lost trying to get back to the small and shabby little theatre Grantaire had dragged them to that morning. Morning? Dieu. It felt a lot longer ago. It really hadn't been fair of Grantaire to send Maurice to talk to Combeferre. Even _he_ could tell that Enjolras' Second found Maurice's nervous illnesses annoying. And it took quite a lot before Daniel would allow that_ anyone_ could find Maurice annoying. Except possibly when he was demanding at some ungodly hour of the night that they - or rather _he_ - should get up and go outside to clean the gutters to prevent the spread of infection and plague.

True, being a fellow medical student did give Maurice a valid excuse to _visit_, but when Daniel slipped into the theatre and found his Joli, it didn't take much more than a glance at Maurice's expression to know that things hadn't exactly gone smoothly. Really, couldn't _Grantaire_ have gone to speak with Combeferre? Dieu, what were they even doing this _for_? Oh oui, all very grateful and _really_ glad you didn't manage to get my Joli killed during your little escapade, but can't you just... oh... find out who the spy is on your own? He's too kind-hearted and prone to just... _doing_ things for people without thinking about the dangers.

He sat next to Maurice, who was perched precariously on a row of benches set up for some sort of non-existent audience. It was almost ironic, considering the way Grantaire was sprawled in easy familiarity on the stage, like any minute he was going to get to his feet and start rambling off a speech from Moliere on the inconsistency of men. Funny, Daniel had never quite noticed it before, but Grantaire made a lot more sense when viewed through the words of Moliere. Other denizens of the theatrical words were scattered about the theatre, three boys all looking exactly alike; a young woman; an elderly man; several men and women in vague colourful costumes who were seated at the very back of the theatre, laughing and talking together in a very Particular way that people had when they were waiting for something to happen.

Or for the show to start.

The girl had seated herself next to him, and was fluttering eyelashes so long that he became frightened that if she leant over a little further she might skewer him with one. Oh dear dieu... are you a courtezan or something? If you are... I'm all for the rights of women to do what they like on stage and everything, but would you mind _not_ - um - doing what you _like_ with me? I'm really only here because of my friend. Really.

"...so. How did everyone do?" Grantaire asked from the stage, somehow managing to make his voice carry over the hubbub from the seated actors. Daniel felt a twinge of jealousy and wondered if - when all this was over so long as they were all still 'very good friends with ridiculous new nicknames' - Grantaire might teach him how to do that.

**"**Not so well." The girl at his side said, bottom lip sticking out nearly enough to rival her eyelashes. "You didn't tell me he had a girlfriend."

Jehan had a girlfriend? Jehan? He tried to equate the pious and poetical young man mentally with _any_ young woman. Perhaps a nun? Oh dieu, no. Of course not. Nuns couldn't have suitors. Maybe... um... a very poetical poor young lady about to die from Syphillus? Was that poetical? He thought it was. Most of the books seemed to think so, and books were - quite certainly - clever.

Grantaire gave hissignature thin-grin that made him look like someone had cut a gash in his head. Actually, most of Grantaire's signature _anythings_ were odd and off and seemed to be calculated to make the other person feel more odd and off themselves so they wouldn't think about anything too hard. **"**Ah... Columbine, my sweet, my darling, my belle... why would you want to break your dear Scaramouche's heart?"

What?

**"**Oh, Scaramouche," the eyelashes went crazy. "You know I wouldn't do that to you. I was only going to joke with him."

Back up, Grantaire was having a fling with the _girl?_ The one who looked like a courtezan, just a really tiny one? Because she couldn't be much older than fifteen?

**"**Of course, of course." No one else seemed to be noticing. Not even Maurice. No one else seemed to care. Daniel wondered if he should say something, and then decided it was safer just to pretend not to care like everyone else. "Th' way you joke with your poor Pierrot. Any news, ma belle?"

"Nothing, mon cher. He doesn't know a thing about the matter." Of course he didn't, this was Prouvaire... his friends all wore hair-ribbons and discussed Wordsworth and Shelley in hushed voices while drinking coffee. Not exactly the type of people to spy for the government. Of course, the point of being a spy was to be unsuspected... so...

His head was beginning to hurt.

Grantaire blew her a kiss, and again no one seemed to care. "Merci, Columbine."

**"** Ah, de rien, Scaramouche." Columbine caught the kiss and pressed it over her heart - which he could see rather too much of for his own comfort. One of the triplets sitting on the floor nearby sent them all a look of petulant disapproval, and Daniel immediately beamed at him. Thank dieu. _Someone_ had noticed. That was until Columbine sent him some sort of look which involved quite a lot of eyelash fluttering and coy ducking of her head, and the boy melted.

This was just...

He'd heard about the _Romantic_ movement, but there was carrying an ideal too far, surely.

**"** You, Harlequin?"

"No." Joli answered before he could quite remember that he _was_ Harlequin, and Daniel gave a start and tried rather belatedly to remember who _he_ was supposed to be. "He said Enjolras is taking care of it and I shouldn't worry. Oh, and he practically bit my head off when he thought I was accusing him of being loose-lipped."

Grantaire looked incredibly unapologetic. In fact, Daniel hadn't even realised anyone could _look_ that unapologetic without at the same time spitting on a freshly-dug grave or something."Yes, Feuilly was much the same. Caught on fast, but then I knew he'd be a tough one to fool. Seeing as we've never been friends in any way shape or form."

"Yeah, guess so."

Daniel laid a hand on Maurice's shoulder in empathy. Luckily he drew Combeferre's wrath on himself rarely, as Combeferre didn't appear to consider being generally unlucky as a black cat bathed in water from a left shoe and born beneath a ladder was a crime, but on the occasions he _had_ seen the calm medical student angry...

Brrr.

"Dominic doesn't know anything either." he said briskly. "Says he's been looking for you, R." And isn't that a little bit odd, oh Grand Leader? After all, it was Dominic Bahorel who had first introduced him to Grantaire. About... what? A year ago? He'd come into their favorite wineshop and seen Bahorel sitting down with Courfeyrac (no surprise there) and a thin shaggy looking man who looked as though someone had grabbed a large starved dog by the front paws and pulled him up on his hind legs, dressed him in a shabby coat, and stuck a grin on his face cynical enough to frighten a priest. Dominic had slapped him on the back... _Here, L'aigle... meet GrandR. He drank me under the table yesterday!_ Which had surprised him, even as he stuck out his hand and said _Daniel Lesgle_, to which the shaggy cynical demon dog had replied _Perceval Grantaire_, and bought him a drink.

Perceval. Funny the details he could remember from so long ago while _still_ not having a clue why a tort was a tort and what people did with them anyway.

"Oh. Has he?" Grantaire looked slightly ashamed. "I'll have to seek him out, then. Pierots, any news?"

"None, Scaramouche."

They actually chorused. This place was crazy. Once this was over, he was taking Maurice home and they would _never_ do anything _ridiculous_ like this again. He sent a look to this effect at his Joli, who gave him something of a stunned look back. Oh good. We're reacting are we? Finally. I was beginning to think it was just _me_.

"This didn't really work out, did it?" Which was really the closest thing to criticism that Joli had _said_ since the beginning of the madness.

"...my _dear_ Harlequin," once again, Grantaire looked impressively unapologetic. "It worked like a charm. We've narrowed down our field to the last Amis."

...No. Oh no. _No_.

Maurice was the one to actually put it into words. "But...there's only Enjolras left."

See? Only Enjolras. Enjolras whom you are pretty fond of and I _really_ wouldn't put it past you to be in love with - not that there's anything wrong with that apart the laws ans the priests and the Bible and... you know. Everything like that. But honestly, it's okay... just... _think_ about... Grantaire was smiling in a smug kind of way. "Exactly."

"..._Enjolras_." Maurice repeated, sounding like he was running towards the edge of the cliff called Disbelief with every intention of jumping off.

Grantaire nodded. "_Enjolras_."

"But Combeferre practically keeps track of his every _movement_." There were a hundred other reasons, but this was a very good one, and probably the best one _to_ say to Grantaire as it sounded... a little less like 'why would we think our leader capable of getting us all thrown in prison when we're not sure _you _are capable of it?

"Hum. Yes, that's true." Grantaire said in what was really quite a remarkably _serious_ voice. "But they were both very busy with exams - at least Combeferre was, I don't think Enjolras actually pays any mind to exams - before the arrest. It's more than possible Enjolras discovered some new contact in that timeframe and Combeferre hasn't had a chance to vet him yet."

"Hold on." This had gone far enough. He frowned a little to show he Did Not Approve. Not that anyone seemed to _care_, but - well... "Are you saying you think _Enjolras_ is the cause of us all getting arrested?" Maurice was nodding along with him, which was the first time he'd seemed to side with _Daniel_ in the whole adventure. Ah... Joli. I think I was feeling a little bit jealous...

"What, do you think he's infallible?" Grantaire was smirking, rather like a large jack-in-a-box who wanted to tell all the children secrets which would give them nightmares.

Maurice didn't bat an eye. " ...well, close enough..."

**"**More than you, anyway." Daniel added, possibly not very tactfully.

Rather to his surprise, Grantaire did nothing but give a short laugh and nod at them. "Fair enough."

"I'd think he's got better judgement than that, anyway..." Joli frowned for a moment, and perhaps realised at the same moment Daniel did that 'good judgement' and 'that guy who kicked you out of our secret league of revolutionaries because he thought you were a traitor' were not possibly the best things to link together... "or not..."

Grantaire raised both eyebrows and didn't say a single word. Which was actually rather frightening in and of itself. When Maurice returned the look, Grantaire cocked his head to one side and looked like a starving and very cynical sparrow sizing up a lonely breadcrumb. "What would you consider evidence of his brilliant ability to judge character, Joly - throwing me out of the cafe or suspecting me of turning everyone in to the government?"

"I took it back, all right?"

"Fine." Grantaire did not look fine. "As Enjolras is infallible, I suggest we keep watch near his place for no longer than a day. If no one shows up who looks suspicious - I concede that the plan has not worked."

Normally, Daniel would have said something by now to stand up for Maurice... but right now he wasn't sure if that would help things or simply increase the bread-crumb-eating look Grantaire was now giving to the _both_ of them.

"He's not _infallible_..." Maurice said with a sigh.

"_Almost_ infallible, then." This appeared to be the right thing to say. Grantaire smiled a very tiny bit and stopped looking hungry. "Excepting when dealing with drunkards."

"What is watching his house going to tell us?" Maurice asked, ignoring the side-comment with the practised air of Someone Whom People Try To Distract A Lot.

Daniel nodded. "...I was wondering the same thing. Would Enjolras really invite anyone back to his flat to talk about the Amis?" Does he have a flat or does he spring from the marble bosom of Patria fully formed every morning?

**"** ..well. I imagine after the prison incident what with all the scandal and concern, that firstly, there would be relatively few places where it would be safe to meet, and secondly I would hope Enjolras would not be meeting strange unknown men in areas of Paris which he was not familiar with." Grantaire rocked back on his heels and hugged his knees to his chest and did an annoyingly good job of making what was really an _idiotic_ idea sound plausible. Damn. Daniel even felt his head nod along of its own volition. This... was a very annoying talent on Grantaire's part. No wonder Enjolras hated him. "I would argue that the best way to rebuild a sense of trust and keep the meetings secret would be for Enjolras to hold them at his home."

**"**One would hope, yes..." Maurice sounded convinced.

Which means I'm convinced whether I like it or not, doesn't it? ": ...yes... I suppose so..."

" ...Where does he live, anyway? I'd thought he was still rooming with Combeferre, but I didn't see him when I was there..."

Grantaire cleared his throat and levelled a slightly bewildered look at Maurice. "...Joly... how would _I_ know where _Enjolras_ lives?"

"...there's something he doesn't know, Dieu have mercy upon us..." Daniel felt Maurice nudge him in the ribs, and hoped that he hadn't said that loud enough to actually be _heard_ by Grantaire.

Maurice was blushing a little. **"**Oh...right...sorry..."

**"**I heard..." and I do _hear_ some things, you know. I'm not just a pretty face with a shiny bald head. _Really_. "He moved out from Combeferre's. Into the Coutard building?"

**"**That sounds right, actually. I think you told me already." Maurice gave him a slightly apologetic look, and Daniel shrugged. Well... once. But you had the flu, and you weren't in much shape to pay attention...

"Good. Glad someone knew." Grantaire smiled, rolling on as though nothing had happened, no one had doubted his authority and there had not been a moment where Someone Other Than Himself had known Something. "If you two are willing, we'll keep an eye on that tomorrow - and hope someone turns up."

Not for the first time, Daniel turned and looked at Maurice with a plaintiveness that said he really just wanted to go home and forget this had happened. Maurice gave him a little shrug as if to say 'Well... we did _promise_..."

"...right. Okay. I'll meet the two of you tomorrow outside the Coutard building. i believe there's a small cafe across the road." Grantaire nodded to them, got up on the stage and threw his large, ridiculous, stylish and impressive hat to Columbine.

Who caught it. "Planning to come back and get this?"

"Maybe. Merci for the help, ma belle - fistons..." Grantaire gave the room a sweeping wave, another thing Daniel remembered from that time he'd seen Scaramouche on stage. Really... what _was_ going on between him and Columbine? What _was_ this place?

Maurice looked around awkwardly. "I suppose...we ought to go, then?"

"If you _must_." And now the pout was being aimed at them and the eyelashes were fluttering again and... Daniel grabbed Maurice's hand and clung to it for dear life.

": ...I think we should.**" **Please.

"See you tomorrow.**" **Grantaire left quickly and rather anticlimactically. As he stepped out, the theatre started coming to life again and the masked and costumed people lounging around on the seats turned curious black eyes on Maurice and Daniel.

"All right." Maurice let himself be tugged out of the theatre past the triplets doing handstands and the old old man trying to swing by his beard on a beam... Daniel didn't even let tripping over the mantle slow him down. Never. Never in his life had he been more glad to get out of a place, or more convinced that his Joli and himself were the only sane, sensible people left in a mad mad world.


	12. The Apostle of Revolution

**A/N Just over halfway through, and we're almost halfway through writing the sequel. With any luck we'll be finished the sequel before we finish posting this Arc. :) Hope you're all still enjoying it! Do review if you are, we love getting them!**

Augustin Enjolras was exceedingly pleased with himself, a circumstance that happened more rarely than anyone might suspect. One of his new recruits had returned to speak with him on matters of the Cause, and the meeting was going _exceedingly_ well. M. Pilon seemed to be an excellent man for the ABC – completely dedicated to understanding the Cause and to defending his country. Not, perhaps, the most educated man one might encounter, but that was no sin, and he made up for it with a sort of natural sharpness.

He was in the middle of his sentence on freedom of speech – the conversation had turned to the Rights of Man – when he heard the front door open haltingly. He believed he had locked it, so it must be Combeferre; Combeferre had a key. "…Enjolras? Are you home?" Good, it _was_ Combeferre.

"I'm here," he called back. "What is it?"

"...I picked up the laundry, and I have notes from your lecture for you..." Combeferre wandered into the room with an armful of clean shirts and trailed off as his line of sight hit Pilon. Well, it was true Pilon wasn't exactly an easy sight. A lesser man might even find his size, rough demeanor, and obvious musclepower intimidating should he miss the honesty in Pilon's eyes.

"Ah, yes, that," Enjolras said, giving a dismissive glance at the laundry. He could have done without it, and also without the distrustful look that Combeferre had just transferred from Pilon to _him_. Did his lieutenant think he couldn't take care of himself? "Combeferre, this is Pilon, a pupil of Liberty. Pilon - this is Combeferre, who thinks he's my nanny."

"Good morning, M. Pilon," Combeferre said, suddenly turning cold. Onto the floor went the laundry, onto the table went the notes, and onto the defensive went Enjolras. Thankfully it did not infect Pilon, who answered with a nod and a very amicable "Good morning, Combeferre."

"...how long have you been meeting?" Combeferre said, turning to Enjolras with that same irritating warning look. "I don't believe you've mentioned M. Pilon to me before."

"I haven't?"

"You haven't." He pushed his glasses up his nose and returned to Pilon. "How did you come to hear of the Cause, M. Pilon?"

"I was passing by him," Pilon said with a nod to Enjolras, "speaking in the street one day and thought I'd stop and listen."

The look of mild horror on Combeferre's face was thankfully fleeting. For his part, Enjolras thought he had the right to speak wherever he wanted, merci beaucoup, whether his _governess_ thought it safe or no. The horror was replaced with a polite smile. "Really? How long ago was that?"

"Oh…hm…I really don't remember. It wasn't all that long ago," Pilon said apologetically.

"Are you staying, Combeferre?" Enjolras cut in. He didn't see how it mattered when he'd first met Pilon anyway.

"…yes, I think so." In the tone that instead said "Are you an idiot? Why would I leave _you_ alone with _him_?"

"All right," he shrugged. Let Combeferre think what_ever_ he wanted.

"What is it exactly that interests you about the Cause, M. Pilon?" Combeferre said, returning seamlessly to his conversation.

"The government's just too hard on the common man. There's no justice in the world today."

Combeferre didn't look terribly convinced somehow. "And where are you coming from in the picture of social justice, M'sieur? Are you a student like ourselves?"

Pilon shook his head. "'ve been working all my life. Manual labor, mostly." As much was evident by the calluses on the hand he held up with a joking grin. "But whatever I can get."

"I see," Combeferre said, but his tone said he clearly didn't. "Are you considering becoming a member of a group such as ours?"

" If it looks like a better way to get something done than standing around _waiting_ for it to happen, then yeah," Pilon said sensibly. Enjolras liked the way his mind worked. It was exactly the sort of thing they needed.

"Indeed." Combeferre gave Enjolras a narrow glance that said he'd read the approval in his eyes – damn, must work on neutral expression – and didn't share it.

"Why wait for dawn when you can start a fire?" he said in agreement with Pilon, ignoring Combeferre. Pilon nodded.

"Where exactly is this 'fire' going to be lit?" Combeferre said cuttingly. Enjolras was beginning to be slightly irritated.

"In the hearts and minds of the people, so that it overflows into the streets." Combeferre ought to know this, which meant he was simply trying to make a point. What that point might be, Enjolras couldn't fathom.

"Good. How are we going to achieve this baptism of fire across the nation?"

"As we have always done: disseminated by word of mouth."

Combeferre continued to look distrusting. "..hm. I think I will have some coffee. Do you want some, M. Pilon?"

"Sure, if you don't mind," he said, somehow undaunted by Combeferre's attitude, thank Marianne.

"The same for me," Enjolras said.

"Oh no problem. Just one of my many duties as a nanny," Combeferre told Pilon with a ever-so-_slightly _ sarcastic look in his eye before nodding in reply to Enjolras and going into the kitchen for the coffee.

Enjolras sighed at the 'nanny' remark. "He jokes about it, but I swear that's how he acts."

"At least things get done, hm?" Pilon said with a shrug.

"…I suppose."

When Combeferre returned, he was carrying three cups of coffee – and a plate of food. Presumably he intended to coerce Enjolras into eating. Combeferre ignored his scowl and set the food down firmly in front of him with a look that said "You can hardly ignore me in front of him, now can you?" Despite not being the least bit hungry, he couldn't argue with the logic and began picking at it sulkily.

"As I'm sure you can imagine, M. Pilon, we have had to become even more cautious since our recent abortive visit to the governmental penitentiaries," Combeferre said with a hint of victory in that smug smile.

Pilon nodded. "Yeah, I could see that. It wouldn't bother me so much, but not much does, you know?"

"…well, that's good," Combeferre said more cautiously.

"Oh, don't get the wrong idea. It's just when you live life hard, it doesn't matter so much where you end up 'cause they're going to treat you the same anyway."

"I see," Combeferre said, but he still didn't sound sure. "Yes. I'm glad that I have had an opportunity to finally meet you."

"The same," Pilon said.

"Now, I do have some business to discuss with Enjolras..." He was using his very politest tone, the one that didn't bode well for anyone within earshot.

"Oh, it's no problem," Pilon said, standing. "I'll be getting along, then."

Enjolras nodded politely. "Pleasure talking to you, Pilon."

Combeferre returned from seeing Pilon to the door with a _look_ on his face that bore out every distrustful suspicion Enjolras had thought he'd seen on his face previously.

"All right, Combeferre," Enjolras said as he pushed the plate aside, "what is it?"

Combeferre sighed and raised an eyebrow. "'Nanny'?"

"Well-" For a second Enjolras was almost sorry he'd said it. But then he wasn't. "Well, you _are_! Lighten up!"

"...I thought we were going to be more cautious who we talked to," Combeferre said, once again ignoring those parts of Enjolras' conversation he seemed to find superfluous.

"I am," he said with a forceful calm. Must work on neutral expression.

Combeferre started to clear away the dishes. "Are you? How much do you even know about Pilon? Are you planning on inviting him to a meeting?"

"I already did."

He did not take this news nearly as well as Enjolras had hoped he might. Instead of answering, he merely twitched a little and went into the kitchen to wash the dishes.

"_What_?" Enjolras demanded, Neutral Expression going out the window. He recieved no reply. "Well?"

"What?" Combeferre's calm tones came back from the other room.

"You're angry with me."

"...concerned. Irritated perhaps. Not angry. How _did_ this get so dirty?" he said conversationally in reference to something Enjolras couldn't see.

"Combeferre. Leave the dishes. Get in here and talk to me."

He reentered the room carrying a glass that appeared to be growing mold and that Enjolras honestly could not remember having seen before. "…see?"

"Yes, I see," Enjolras said impatiently. "Now what is it?"

"I am merely concerned that a stranger was invited to join our meetings without any of the rest of the more senior members having a chance to vet him," Combeferre said very calmly. He must know how much that tone irritated him.

"I was _going_ to consult you, but then I thought, no, it would be easier to do so at the meeting, and anyway he's a trustworthy man," Enjolras replied. So there.

Combeferre twitched slightly again. "We cannot afford to take chances, Enjolras."

He sighed. "Well, now you've met him, like you wanted to. What do you think?"

"...he seems a... sincere man," Combeferre said cautiously. "I have... doubts, though. I would like to know more about him."

"_There_. Not a useless, selfish waste of time, not a dangerous informer - sincere."

An odd, heavy look came over Combeferre's face. "You went to see Grantaire, didn't you."

"Well, you _told_ me to," Enjolras said.

"How did it go?" he said in that patient, long-suffering way.

"…well," Enjolras sighed, "It went all right for _him_, I suppose."

"And?"

"I agreed that maybe it wasn't him and even if it was him it was probably on accident and we agreed that he wasn't going to come back to our meetings."

"Very well," Combeferre said. "I'm going to finish the dishes and then I have a class."

"Do you ever _not_ have a class?" Enjolras sighed.

"Do you ever _go_ to yours?" Combeferre shot back with a slight smile.

"Yes, I do." He began to flip through the notes that Combeferre had left on the table earlier. They were neat – far neater than Enjolras', when he did care to take notes – and almost obsessively detailed. They probably contained more information than even the respective textbooks did. "…you're not even _in_ these classes."

Combeferre sighed. "No. But I knew you weren't going to make it."

"…how…" Enjolras looked at Combeferre, who raised an eyebrow. "Stop assuming I'm just going to skip!"

"Well, you _did_ skip," Combeferre said matter-of-factly.

"But I might _not_ have."

Combeferre appeared to deem the conversation at an end because it was at this point that he reclaimed the molding cup and took it back to the kitchen. "…you're quite welcome, Enjolras."

"Merci, Combeferre," he said with a small sigh.

His second returned and picked up his bag. "...I'll see you later, Enjolras. Please don't invite M. Pilon to the meetings without warning me first."

"I won't, if you feel _that_ strongly about it." Enjolras was still unsure of what was making Combeferre so suspicious. However much it hurt to admit it, though, there had been very few instances in which he had known the man to be wrong.

"I do," he said solemnly. "Of course, you _are _the leader."

"A leader with a shadow."

"Once the fires are lit, the shadow always disappears in the brightness of the light," Combeferre said with a small, reassuring smile, grasping the metaphor at once. Enjolras tried never to speak of his failures directly. It was better that way.

"Then go and light a fire," he said with an appreciative nod, somewhat mollified.

"As you say, Enjolras," Combeferre said, and nodded in return, leaving Enjolras to his stack of inhumanly detailed notes and his pile of freshly laundered clothing.

Really, what would he do without him?


	13. The Maddest Part of a Mad Species

**A/N: Ever so sorry for the late updates, mes amis. I was out of the country at my brother's wedding, and only just returned. I am sorry to say that we will not be having any more illustrations for a while as work pressures have gotten too much for my cher TW to be able to keep them up regularly. **

Ah, the brilliance of your mind, Perceval. Really, no! No, cheri, you have to admit that only the _most_ brilliant of Paris' geniuses would consider this plan. After all, and I direct this question also to you, M. Coffee Cup and you Mlle Teaspoon... who else would have even considered the plan of convincing the Eagle and his little Joli to sit outside the apartment of Great and Glorious Leader for hours? In a bad cafe that sells, and no offense, cher coffee cup, terrible coffee and worse wine - which he couldn't drink anyway. Oh no, no, _no_, mes amis. It simply would _not_ do for Papa Grantaire to have one single glass of wine. Heavens. Everyone knows Papa Grantaire can get drunk on the fumes of a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

They were seated outside on uncomfortable chairs, squinting a little as the sun crept further and further down in the sky. The chairs were splintering, several of which were embedded in his palms, and the table rocked every time L'aigle picked up his coffee cup. Of which he had imbibed enough to slowly alter the gentle disbelief that had been hovering around him like the famed cloak of Nessus (though hopefully not poisoned and doomed to murder demi-gods through the admittedly incredibly gullible hands of their overly jealous wives - hah, and people wondered why Grantaire did _not_ advocate Marriage...) had changed to a distinctly impatient and even irritable expression which appeared to be permanently directed at cher Papa Grantaire.

Grantaire was currently avoiding _looking_ at L'aigle in preference for drinking his incredibly bad coffee and trying to pretend that being seated on a splintering chair with the sun in his eyes on the cold side of the street outside the apartment of a Godlet who would scorch his soul should he happen to come out of the door and see his worthless Winecask daring to be within view was not at all bothering him. Nor was the headache. Nor was the knowledge that L'aigle thought him to be a mad fool and was only putting up with this because Joly appeared to believe that Saving Stupid Schoolboys Together made them some sort of team. It wasn't very difficult to see the glances they were exchanging. Oh no. See? See Mlle Teaspoon? That is L'aigle's 'why are we even doing this, ami?' eyebrow raise. In a moment... wait... just a little longer... a voila! That, as you can see by the widened eyes and the nervous biting of his lip is Maurice Joly's 'I'm sorry, cher, but I promised...' expression. You see, Mlle Teaspoon, M. Joly is quite a nice homme and seems to think that he has an obligation to follow drunk madmen (although I'm not drunk. Really. I cannot get drunk on coffee. Even my powers do not stretch that far.) even when their plans involve sitting outside the abode of his sworn rebublican leader and suspecting him of allowing the secrets of said republican group - did I mention secret? Oui, secret republican revolutionary anti-Bourbon, down with Charles X and vive l'Parliament group to slip into the hands of a spy.

So instead of _arguing_ with the drunk madman, he is biting his nails and staring at the cobblestones obviously terrified that he is going to get ill just from looking at them. Thankfully, M. L'aigle has not let M. Joly have any coffee. I do not think we want to see M. Joly drink coffee, do you M. Coffee Cup? Mlle. Teaspoon? No? Good. Bon. Papa Grantaire is pleased with your agreement.

L'aigle spilt his black, thick, overly-sweetened coffee over the table cloth and summoned only a very faint chuckle as Joly tried to mop it up with his white, pressed and impeccably mended handkerchief. For a moment he raised his eyes to the heavens, and then - with a faint weariness that was not lost on Papa Grantaire, cutlery and crockery be his witness! - said, "...is... anything going to happen soon?"

"I'm sure it is." Joly did not look sure. Joly looked apologetic in the way people looked when they had brought their best friends home to meet the family and Crazy Oncle Jacques was visiting and decided to show said friend his collection of sheep skulls and otter teeth.

Grantaire stirred more sugar into the black waste that was the coffee and muttered, "I'd kill for some wine right now," hopefully quietly enough that neither of his unwilling accomplices could hear him. Dieu and Zues forfend they get it into their skulls that he was about to start drinking seriously and _properly_. Because no matter how much he would prefer the detestible wine of the establishment over its destestible coffee (again, cher coffee cup, no offense. Thou art merely the container for this filth and I do not blame thee for the repulsiveness of that which I am forced to drink), getting properly drunk in the good old fashion of the Vikings and Greeks and the servants of Bacchus outside the abode of Apollo was not Grantaire's idea of a wise course of action. Dieu only knows why, but Apollo did not appear to approve of the truly artistic talent of worshipping at the altar of Dionysus and Bacchus_ properly._

Before his companions could comment - if they _had_ heard him, and really, sometimes Grantaire got the impression that he was only audible when he said something less than polite about Cher Revolution or offered to buy everyone drinks - the door to chez Enjolras opened and a man came out. Not an Amis. Not the Godlet Apollo. Not even a man who looked comfortable on this street. A man of girth, hulking and brooding, and wearing what appeared to be a rather unattractive smirk. To the nose of Papa Grantaire, he smelt of prison, he smelt of cognes... he smelt of Mouchard. See, Mlle. Teaspoon? The way his eyes are flickering around the street? The walk? The official leather of those oh-so-official boots? That, is our man.

He smiled a little, put down cher amis coffee cup and teaspoon and gave a little nod to L'aigle and Joly as M. Boots strolled lazilly by. Joly caught on fast, ah - cher Harlequin. Enchante. Good to have you back. His intelligent second gave him a questioning look, while Pedrolino, less used to the role, blinked both eyes wide, as though to say 'Him?'

Pay attention, cher. Follow Papa Scaramouche. He rose and shrugged into his coat, wishing for a moment that it was the colours and patches the Scaramouche was accustomed to. Where is the red velvet and lapels of Capitain Scaramouche, my friends? Where are his fine satin breeches and his tall black boots, and the cane and the sword with the golden hilt? There were just enough coins in his pockets to cover the bill for all the coffee they had managed to imbibe, so he paid. It appeared, to cause Pedrolino some annoyance - oh dear. Scaramouche pays and now the children must needs follow whether they like it or not. Hah.

Without heeding the looks passing between cher Harlequin and his black-and-white friend (where was their Columbine?) Scaramouche began to walk casually in the direction M. Boots was going. Harlequin was right behind him, apt and ready as always, merci beaucoup, and Pedrolino managed to finally capsize the unsteady table, giving a booming laugh as he stumbled over his own feet in an effort to catch up with them. Scaramouche narrowed his eyes, and Grantaire the Man took the arm of Joly the Man and winked at L'aigle The Man. As Men and Friends they would be more natural, more sly, more careful and wily. Grantaire the Man gave a snort of amusement and joked to L'aigle about capsizing the boat of the ancient mariner had he been given a chance, at which L'aigle grinned good-humeredly and Joly half-jestingly told the man Grantaire to stop being mean.

Grantaire grinned at Joly and raised his hands in surrender, giving L'aigle a friendly sort of shove - which he actually managed to dodge without tripping over. Joly laughed, and then gave a yelp when Grantaire poked him in the ribs. Oh, this was interesting. It was like they were all friends. He could remember times like this back at the Ecole with men he had called friends. Funny how one lost the knack. You could play at being friends, with that line carefully in the sand over which you didn't cross... but to actually _be_ friends...

Harder, that.

Scaramouche kept an eye on M. Boots, while the Man Grantaire joked back and forth with his 'friends'. Scaramouche is no fool, Scaramouche is the fox who outwits the hare, the wolf who runs the hunting dog to earth and breaks his neck before he can bay. We know the city, mon cheri... she is like a lady with sweet kisses hiding foul breath. Her breasts are wrapped in a dirty chemise and he skirts trail into the mud. We know her and she knows us. You'll not escape Papa Scaramouche. He led the children, his followers who - like rats or youths - were following the piping piper towards the magic mountain, with natural progression further into the shadows. All that we are, if we put our minds to it mes amis, are drunken young men looking for the makings of a good time. Wine. Women. Song. Comradeship.

There are no spies in our hearts.

Although Scaramouche _and_ The Man Grantaire knew where they were and where they were going, it was becoming obvious that both Pedrolino and Harlequin were not as well versed on the back alleys and side streets of Paris's slums. Pedrolino was closer and closer to his mirror-twin, and Harlequin was looking less like the patched multicoloured rogue, and more like a rather worried young Joly with his nose in his handkerchief and his eyes fixed on Pedrolino as though his shiny-topped head were signpost enough to show their way.

Grantaire skipped around a loose cobble easily, and ducked between two elderly women out for a stroll and a long malicious gossip. Stray cats fought their endless battle with the children of the streets, sticks and stones battling the ingenuity of the Egyptian gods, fur and claws and old Ra magic. A stench wafted out one window, tangling into the food smells coming from another until a heady perfume of almost-bad, almost-good swam around them. This was home to the Man Grantaire. Here we live and here we play. Here is where Suzette sells herself on a street corner and is home before ten to tuck petit Jean into bed and tell him a story about bread on the table and lie about her black eye. This is where old men chew bad tobacco instead of eating, and young men are hard and angry with the world. This is _my_ home, and you two brave clowns had better watch where you walk.

M. Boots seemed to have realised he had collected an escort, as he suddenly ducked out of sight around a sharp bend, taking the left of two options with such speed that it was only by the thinnest chance that Scaramouche - Grantaire - the Man saw him at all.

Ah. Well, now, my dear cogne, my cabestan, my mouchard... what now? Do we dart into shadows after your good self in the wild hope of finding you and thus let you realise how definitely we are trailing you... or shall we instead take a risk? Grantaire - and he was definitely more Grantaire than Scaramouche at the moment. Scaramouche loved theatre and drama, the fine winding walls of the Notre Dame, the halls of a great mansion, the stage... a prison or a battle, but not the streets of the poor and the smells of the rotting. No. That was where Grantaire felt comfortable and at home, not Scaramouche. Grantaire had always liked risk. Quickly he nodded to L'aigle and Joly and tugged them past the side street M. Boots had run into, and on down the alley they had already been travelling.

"I thought we were meant to be following him?" L'aigle whispered too loudly, backed up by a bevy (flock? herd? cackle?) of nods from cher Joly.

No, no, no. Of _course_ not. We're out here walking for our _health_. He shook his head a little and continued walking, the worn old splitting leather of his boots making tired old man sounds against the cobbles. "Just wait." They reached another little alley which joined on to the sidestreet M. Boots had wandered down. Unless there was another alley further on which he didn't know about...

Seconds crawled by, each one balanced like a watchface on the back of a turtle. L'aigle was fidgetting nervously in the suspended animation of a man who really _really_ wants to tell everyone how stupid this all is, but can't quite bring himself to say it out loud.

They had almost run out of turtles when steps were heard, and M. Boots sauntered by. Thank you Zues, Hera, Hermes, and whatever angels watch over drunks and clowns. Grantaire grinned to himself and took the lead, trailing after the heavy official booted footsteps of their New and Dear Ami who was now completely sure the wrath of the Republic was not following at his heels.

Joly and L'aigle followed him, arm in arm as usual and exchanging quick little glances. Something Grantaire was quite sure that they were talking about him with their minds. It seemed a little rude. Really. If you have something to say, children, share it with the class. He whistled softly to himself, Ca ira... ca ira... ca ira...

So, M. Boots... are you friend or foe with your shiny official leather? Do you fear the shadows in the street because of a weight on your conscience, or because we might hold knives that thirst after your purse strings? How can I prove it, that is the question. How do I prove you are the man?

For a stretch of two corners they walked, Boots in front and clowns behind, twins close together and worrying their seperate little thoughts. Joly - obviously concerned for the diseases hiding around the corners and waiting to spring at their throats, while L'aigle did his best to look capable of protecting all of them while really looking as though he wanted to go back to bed and pretend this had never happened.

M. Boots ducked suddenly into another alleyway and sped up, not quite breaking from a walk. Aha. The first move. Grantaire slipped further into the shadows and lengthened his stride to match. The day was swiftly drawing closer to dusk, and the air had taken on a chilliness which cut through the thin material of his coat. L'aigle and Joly followed along behind him as their breath turned into steam before their faces and their steps rattled the dozing windows of the crowded, ugly apartments up above.

M. Boots moved like oil through water, slipping into side streets, through half-broken doorways, out alleys and down flights of stairs, taking sharp corners and then ducking out of sight - only a moment too late. Because Grantaire was keeping up. He had to. This was his world, his home, he knew the streets and he would be damned to hell three times in an oaken barrel if some governmental swine was going to lose him.

And then M. Boots suddenly broke into a run, leaping to the left and sprinting off down an alley littered with trash and guttering lights. Grantaire ran after him, only vaguely aware of the two men following him. His shoes were splitting again, nearly falling off as they pounded against the street. He was dodging around lampposts, jumping over frightened cats sprinting for the safety of their broken crate homes. His breath came in bursts, sharp, urgent, and he knew in a sudden realisation which was as belated as it was terrifying that he had led L'aigle and Joly into danger.

What if they were running into a trap? What if someone got hurt? What if they couldn't find their way out again?

M. Boots was up ahead, and Grantaire knew he was heading for _something_. A hideout, perhaps. Maybe a gang. Someone to help him. Somewhere he could get help. Somewhere down this alley was danger. His heartbeat was thudding in his ears now. Faster. Vite, drunkard, vite. Catch the spy. He's getting away!

But then - in a moment of precious, precious irony... the alley was blocked off. Some fool driver of a second-rate fiacre had crashed it into the alley - obviously lost or what was he doing here then? - and left it there. A blockage. A little barricade, oh my great imperial officer, Bourbon spy... cabistan!

M. Boots stopped and gave a loud, creative curse before wheeling around and casting a glance at them, contemplative and desperate at once.

Grantaire hesitated a moment and turned to look at both Joly and L'aigle, who looked stunned, out of breath, and even a little frightened. He nodded to them and gestured for them to stay back in the shadows before stepping quickly and smartly towards their new dear sweet loving friend and replacing his mask. "Evening." He was breathing lightly now, heartbeat slowing to a treacle blur as everything came into fine relief and he saw which part to play.

"Evening."

He was straight to the chase, the crook and gambler. Michel was his name, and he was a gnan gnan and a sourin and one whom it was not wise to cross, oh no. Straight talker, my friends. But just as straight with his knife. "I believe you are acquainted with a group of men I have an interest in." He looked M. Boots up and down. A nasty looking man, all thick chest and rough face and calculating eyes.

"Oh really. What sort of interest?"

"ah... 'interest' in every meaning of the word, my dear sir. I have contacts who would be most intrigued to discover information about these young men." Powerful men, they were who hired such a homme as Michel. You didn't tell them no, oh dieu... never.

Boots gave him a long look and sounded disinterested. "What's your game?"

Simple. "Whatever pays the best."

"I think we're on the same side here." The cabestan was squirming, trying to slip out of the problem. Michel let him squirm. After all, it was amusing.

"Are we?" He offered a grin to his pinioned dove, his pigeon. "I'm very glad to hear it."

"Right. So if you'd kindly let me continue on my way..." and he was, indeed, moving to leave as he said it. Grantaire saw vaguely the shapes of L'aigle and Joly behind him standing a little too close together to be _quite_ intimidating, sighed, and moved to intercept, Michel's oily voice coating his tongue.

"When we only just became acquainted? My goodness, no. I have very nervous masters, M'sieur. Give me something to reassure them with. They know there's someone with these young men - if you could give me an assurance that you are on our side, that might make their nerves go away." Tell me you were spying. Tell me whom you work for. Give me proof.

Boots looked as though he were sneering. "I'm not going to be swayed by anyone's _nerves_."

"I'd be swayed by their nerves." Michel was calm. Grantaire was calm. Neither of them liked being sneered at. "They get most short-tempered when they're nervous."

"I've been known to do the same," M. Boots said, as his muscles bunched and rolled.

"As have I." Thin threat while my friends and I outnumber you. "And there are three more of me. If we have the same goals, why should we not be friends?"

Behind the smile and the words dripping with oil... Grantaire was tense. Just give me my answers, you connard. Give me my proof.


	14. The Very Gods Laugh At You

To be face to face with their rat at last…Joly didn't know whether to be furious or frightened. He almost had to strain to hear their words over the sound of his own heartbeat, which had to be going much much much too fast. He'd never felt so out of his element as he did now, between narrow walls and puddles of god-knows-_what_ and broken_ everything_. Harlequin had completely evaporated under the fierce stare of the wild animal they had just cornered together and from the great shock of his situation. Imagine trusting Grantaire over Enjolras – and it had paid _off_…He could feel Daniel's arm coiled protectively around his shoulders, which made him feel _somewhat_ better but _dieu_…

"Tell you what," their informer drawled. "Why don't you give me a chance to think it over?"

"No time like the present," Scaramouche…Grantaire…he really couldn't tell, it was all so very odd, even though he ought to be used to it by now, so what did it matter?...said with a face-splitting grin. Maurice had the horrible sinking feeling that he really _shouldn't_ be taunting the man like that – built like an ox, but (it seemed) not nearly as stupid, and he had such a predatory look in his eye…

"These are weighty decisions, my friend," the ox said calmly.

"These are hard times," Scaramouche matched him.

"I'm not in for anything unless there's something in it at the other end for me."

"…the precious commodity of our eternal gratitude can be a valuable thing, my friend," Scaramouche said dryly.

The other man matched his tone. "Does eternal gratitude buy bread?"

"That all depends on how grateful we are," Scaramouche smirked. Daniel's grip tightened a little and Joly tried desperately not to show how worried he was becoming.

"I've never yet had someone be grateful to me," the ox said in a tone that sneered, "Nice try".

"…I've heard it can be a fulfilling experience, Scaramouche shot back.

"Not interested," he said flatly.

Scaramouche raised one eyebrow. "Where do you usually peddle your wares?"

"Suffice to say I'm past my mercenary days."

"…mm," Scaramouche said, raising the other eyebrow as if this news were surprising. "Gone official, have we?"

"What's it to you?" the ox said, suddenly looking defensive and about three times more dangerous. Maurice moved a very little bit closer to Daniel.

"We don't deal with official business," Scaramouche said, not seeming to notice the other man's reaction, and gave a smile that indicated that were their new acquaintance official, they would quite happily disappear. Part of Maurice wanted to, but it was overwhelmed by the much larger part that wanted to see that rat drink his own medicine.

The other man paused for a moment before replying, "Then there's nothing here to see."

"That's rather what I thought." Scaramouche leaned forward slightly, as if he were about to reveal a great secret. "…perhaps I should have identified myself earlier. I am Scaramouche, and the last time someone attempted to have these young men thrown into prison, I was forced to break them out again. I would _hate_ to have to break into La Force a _second_ time."

Something horrible flashed behind the ox's eyes. "So you're the bastard done it, hm?"

"That's me," Scaramouche – or, Joly reflected, possibly more of Grantaire now – said with a broad grin. "An' you're the bastard who put 'em there. This is one of those moments in life, m'sieur, when the pivotal characters of the play finally meet each other. Exciting, isn't it?"

The spy didn't look very excited. On the contrary, he had retained a sort of forced calm that made Joly want to stay very very very far away from him. "You could say that."

"So," Grantaire said matter-of-factly, "I presume that you will demure should I invite you oh-so-cordially to accompany us back to the next meeting and introduce you to these admirable young men as their informer?"

"I would have to say so, yes."

Grantaire raised one crooked eyebrow. "And if I say I'll take ye anyway?"

The other man replied by suddenly jumping at Grantaire and moving to pin him against the alley wall. For a fraction of a second, Harlequin wanted to jump in, but then Joly pulled himself back. He was _worse_ than useless in a fight – none of them with a weapon so far as he knew – he was just too stunned to move – oh, but _putain_, how could Grantaire stand against that alone? What _had _they gotten themselves into?

Almost at the same time, Daniel shifted forward suddenly, whispering, "Should we help?"

Grantaire pulled back and punched the ox in the stomach with a surprising amount of natural ease. "Maybe..." Maurice said doubtfully, watching as his opponent countered with a blow to the jaw and Grantaire hit him hard again, in the ribs. Both blows looked as if they must have _hurt_. "…we might just get in the way…"

"…but…I didn't even know Grantaire could _fight_." The ox landed another punch to Grantaire's head, making him stagger back, but he came back and matched it well. Joly could only stare in awe at yet another side of Grantaire he'd never known existed. Back and forth they went, this great ox of a man and this wiry, suddenly _agile_ boxer of a Grantaire. They trapped each other, fought free of each other, instinctively sought out each other's weak points. Grantaire hammered and kicked out at the left leg that was the focus of a limp; his opponent fought back by catching Grantaire in the ribs whenever he could.

As they both weakened, he felt Daniel move forward a little. "I think I should help, ami."

He clutched Daniel's sleeve instinctively. "But you'll get hurt." If Daniel _really_ thought he was just going to let him walk into that…cher, _no_…

"But Grantaire _is_ getting hurt," Daniel said worriedly as both men stumbled and the ox tried to pull himself up by pulling Grantaire down.

"That's true…" Whether he liked it or not, Daniel had freed himself and was making his way toward the combatants. Without warning, Grantaire kneed his opponent in the chest and the other man collapsed on the ground. Daniel hauled him back to his feet as Grantaire backed off, wheezing a bit, nose bloodied.

"Why _hello_ Pedrolino, where've you _been_?" Grantaire said with a cough.

"You did tell us to stay out of it, Scaramouche," Daniel said apologetically.

"So I did," he said, a bit more nicely. "Would never have done for you two to get hurt." He cradled his ribs, which Joly suddenly realized were likely to be broken. Especially given his shallow breathing.

"Are _you_ all right?" he asked, daring to creep a little closer to the scene.

"I'm fine," Grantaire said. "We need to invite our new friend back home before anyone who has an interest in him sees us."

Their "new friend" chose this moment to pass out on Daniel, causing him to stagger a little under the added weight. Maurice never quite remembered how strong his friend actually was.

"That makes it easier," Grantaire said in some relief. "Harlequin, would you be kind enough to tie that colourful neckerchief around his eyes? Pedrolino, I believe I have some ropes that you can use to secure him more firmly. I am going to sit down and catch my breath."

Maurice blindfolded him nervously while Daniel tied the knots expertly. Then he glanced over and realized Grantaire was about to pass out as well. Oh nooooo no no. Without him they would be completely lost, not to mention that while Daniel could manage the ox, he could most emphatically _not_ carry Grantaire as dead-weight. And did he mention they would be totally lost? At night? After _dark? _In a part of the city that he knew absolutely nothing about and that made him more nervous than…well, _anything_? Come on, Joly. Think of something to talk about. Anything to keep him conscious.

"So…" he began, but he was still too stunned to really think properly, and just looked at the unconscious spy and shook his head. "Wow."

"What?" Grantaire said, sounding unfocused. What if he had a concussion? Or some of his senses had been knocked out? Or…Joly tried to stop imagining the range of horrible things that could have happened.

"You did it _again_," he said.

"…you helped," Grantaire said vaguely. "Again. It's a becoming a habit, Harlequin."

"I didn't help," Joly protested, starting to feel a little guilty for hanging back and letting Grantaire get hurt. "I was a hindrance."

Grantaire gave him a confused frown. "Joly, what are you _talking_ about?"

"…neither of us were much help, 'Scaramouche'," Daniel said, dragging his load over and squatting down next to Grantaire. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I might need a little help getting out of here," he admitted.

"I might be able to help," Maurice said doubtfully. 'Might' as in Of Course I'll Help As Best I Can Ami But I _Am_ The Man Who Once Broke My Ankle On A Brick So Please Don't Put Your Full Weight On Me.

"If you will lend me your shoulder, Harlequin – I'm afraid you'll have to carry our friend, Pedrolino," Grantaire said, sounding very tired. Joly felt another twinge of guilt and resolved to not complain. At all. Ever. He had the feeling this wasn't as realistic a goal as he thought it was.

Daniel gave the spy a look that said he would like very much to "accidentally" drop him on the way. "…I can do that." Maurice nodded agreement as well.

"Cover him with a coat…" Grantaire said as he tried to get up and fell over again. "…the blindfold and ropes are…not a good look." Maurice helped him back to his feet and Daniel complied, hauling the body up again.

And now they only had to go back through the alley, around the cats, up the side streets, under a bridge, around a thousand crumbling corners, and through waves upon waves upon _waves_ of miasmas. In time to make the meeting.

But at last they had their man.


	15. Truth Is So Often Disconcerting

**A/N - There are only another four chapters to the tale after this! And I warn you ahead of time, cheries, it has rather a startling ending! Please review if you're enjoying the tale, we love to hear from our readers.  
**

Combeferre flicked a cautious gaze at the door every now and again, but his thoughts were mostly consumed by his paper. It was still not _quite_ right, and yet Thiery himself had accepted it for his Journal. Combeferre rarely looked on his works as _good_. They were interesting, mentally challenging, or required by his studies and even sometimes those of Enjolras'. He could satiate his curiosity through them, learning to mingle medicine with law and philosophy into what must be the mirror of a soul. Are we not all these parts of Body, Law, and Mind?

But to be published was a step beyond the realms of thought and curiosity, and into business more serious demanding far more care. Not, of course, that Combeferre was not always careful. But Theiry's journal required less of his risks and experiments. He had written, as had been his task, a long scathing essay on the Algerian expedition, drawing heavily from Rosseau's _Du Contrat Social, Principes du droit politique_. Particularly the phrases following the damning, 'Force is a physical power, and I fail to see what moral effect it can have. To yield to force is an act of necessity, not of will - at the most, an act of prudence. In what sense can it be a duty?' In what sense can it be a duty? This is the question I put to the Parliament and to our dear friend Polignac. Can M. Polignac please enlighten the people. Where in Algiers is the necessity that will claim French blood on foreign soil? Where is the _need_ for death and force? And where is the right of M. Polignac to tell the people of France that it is our duty?

He scratched the curve of the question mark into place and rubbed his nose. Perhaps when he was finished with the final draft, Augustin would allow him a few minutes to look it over. While not exactly dedicated to his class-work, Enjolras had a brilliant mind and was quick to pick up on flaws in rhetoric. If perhaps sometimes a little too quick to believe in the sincerity of man. Dieu. No doubt, of course, he was quite right about M. Pilon. Combeferre was used to having to be the... 'nanny' warning Enjolras of danger, over-cautious perhaps, but someone had to be. Still, since their imprisonment it seemed necessary to be more careful. Not less.

Hopefully M. Pilon would not turn up to the meeting. Not even if Enjolras was right, as was his wont. None of them needed a new element thrown into the meetings, not when things were still so unsettled. He rubbed at his stiff fingers and placed the pen very carefully back down on the table, casting a quick glance around the room. They were all here. Courfeyrac and Bahorel managing to make up for the lack of Grantaire by sheer noise, by which is appeared Courfeyrac was telling Bahorel a joke which involved a rather indecent number of naked women, and Bahorel was laughing and banging the table. Prouvaire had his own stack of paper, though the far-off expression in his eyes was suggestive more of artistic fervor than studious concentration. Next to him was Feuilly, looking contemplative, while at the head of the table Enjolras was making a few last minute notes and glancing every so often at Combeferre himself as though to say '_Really_, Nanny.'

Ah. There they were. The Gemini, out of breath and late, Joly coughing as though he had developed consumption overnight and was now performing and experiment on how to expel his lungs via his esophagus. Careful, Eugene. It's not charitable to be annoyed. Perhaps he really _does_ have a cough. Wonders, after all, happen.

"...triplets! Like clowns!" Courfeyrac was gesturing wildly, apparently having run out of raunchy jokes and now moved on to ridiculous anecdotes. Combeferre could never _quite_ decide whether Courfeyrac made them up on the spot and convinced himself that he believed them, or if in some form these things really did happen to men named De Courfeyrac as a way for the universe to balance out his eternal good will.

A snicker arose from Bahorel, obviously sharing in Combeferre's skepticism. "Sure you hadn't had a bit much to drink there, ami?"

"No, no. Really. You can ask Marianne... she saw them."

And now is was Marianne. Last week it had been Suzette, the week before - Eupheme (what kind of name was that for a girl? It should be listed under an ordinance of crime against the individuals and the people.). Perhaps even the jokes weren't actually jokes. Well, grisettes of the famed Lothario aside, it appeared that the company was gathered. Neither Grantaire nor M. Pilon appeared to be in attendance, so he turned a questioning eye on Enjolras, who raised both eyebrows gracefully in return and cleared his throat.

As one, the eyes of all those gathered together turned to their leader. It was a rare talent, Comebferre thought fondly. The ability to calm a storm of thoughts by a single look - a word in the right place, a gesture and they would all turn to him for leadership. He completed them, brought them together into a whole, and then fashioned that whole into something greater than any single one of them would ever be able to do.

"Right. Firstly, does anyone have anything new to report?"

Despite poetry and clowns and enough naked women to fuel the Palais Royal... every man turned a solemn face to Enjolras and shook his head. Combeferre hid a smile and followed suit, having nothing more exciting than the article for Thiery to discuss, and that was hardly an issue for the meeting.

"...all right, then. Anyone have any issues?" Enjolras now directed a look at him, and Combeferre sighed a little. No. No issues, mon capitain. He noted Bahorel and Courfeyrac exchange a quick glance, but luckily Bahorel seemed content to follow his friend's more tactful instincts and stay quiet.

"Good! Good." Enjolras nodded firmly, that decisive all-encompasing nod which indicated that he was about to begin. There was a lot to say this evening. With the troops forming for the ill-advised march into Algeria, Polignac's continued avoidance of the necessity to call in Parliament, and the need for more republicans to start taking up the people's voice and ensuring the king could not ignore it any longer...

"A very fine evening to you, my friends." With a suddenness which took Combeferre by surprise, two men were in their midst, one masked and the other - familiarly brutish. Cher Papa Scaramouche, splendid in black and gold and a fine exotic hat made the tiniest of graceful bows to the assembly while still keeping tight hold of M. Pilon - who looked both groggy and furious, and - to Comebferre's medical eye - rather the worse for wear.

For a long moment, no one said anything. Indeed, Combeferre found that he was incapable of forming a coherent thought _to_ say, and was incredibly grateful when Courfeyrac broke the silence with a laugh, elbowed Bahorel, and said "...it's Papa!"

"So it is!" Bahorel grinned, looking pleased. No doubt because it appeared that _someone_ had been fighting _something_.

"Oh dieu..." Feuilly muttered not nearly quietly enough. "...what this time..." Feuilly, in Combeferre's opinion, tended to direct a healthily suspicious attitude at masked men with unexplained motives.

"...my apologies for my rude entrance, gentlemen." Papa Scaramouche gave M. Pilon a little shove forwards. There was nothing visible of their masked... vigilante's face except a wide, thin smile. Combeferre occasionally felt as though he were seeing Goethe's Mephistofelees, grinning at the damned as he led them on the path to hell. "I felt it my duty to ensure that the wolf who once sent you all to prison did not undo my agency's fine work and do so again."

...oh. _Ah_. Combeferre turned slightly in his chair and looked at Enjolras. He was well aware of the fact that sometimes he could look annoyingly smug, and right now he didn't much care. If it wouldn't have been highly childish, then he would have considered saying 'I told you so.' He could see _both_ Courfeyrac and Bahorel start a little, a smile spreading onto the good-natured Centre's face, while Bahorel sat back in his chair and looked almost amused, and almost annoyed.

"...beg pardon, m'sieur? I hope you have an explanation for this." Enjolras said calmly, ignoring him.

Scaramouche made another slightly off bow, even the devil himself seemed cowed in the face of Enjolras' censure. "Voila, m'sieur. I present to you your leak. A government spy."

"M. Pilon. Is what he says true?" Enjolras looked directly at the man, and Scaramouche gave him a none-too-friendly prod in the back.

M. Pilon gritted his teeth. "It is."

Somehow with the admission came his anger, and Combeferre looked on the man responsible for so much damage to their work and felt himself grow very cold. "Why continue the pretense one you failed, M'sieur?"

"You know what they say." Pilon grunted as Scaramouche gave him another poke. While the Hypocratic oath made no distinctions between men based on actions or beliefs, Combeferre found that he felt very little at the sight of the man's discomfort past an intense curiosity as to what colour his intestines would be. "If at first you don't succeed..."

There was an awkward silence, and Combeferre knew that every man in the room would gladly have seen the rat dead.

"What do you wish to do with him, m'sieurs?" Scaramouche asked grimly, and despite the defiant glare the spy turned on him, Combeferre considered that Scaramouche might quite possibly do whatever they asked, and glanced quickly at Enjolras to see if he had noticed that particular danger.

"We are men of justice, but we are also men of mercy." he was perfectly calm, only the flashing of his eyes a sign that he felt their anger like they did. "We are not murderers."

The masked man nodded. "Shall Papa Scaramouche remove him from your presence then?"

"We would be grateful. Does he know where he is?"

"Not at all. And we shall ensure that it stays that way." Another short, cut-off bow, and Combeferre wondered if perhaps M. Scaramouche had not quite escaped from the battle with the redoubtable Pilon unscathed. "Good evening, gentlemen."

Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Prouvaire looked disappointed, while Pilon gave Scaramouche a quick glance which said he was more likely to start believing in Saint Nicholas than any chance that they were going to allow him to go free. Combeferre could understand his friends' anger and betrayal, but Enjolras was right. If the Republic was to have any strength at all - it had to be built on a mingling of the two. Justice and mercy together.

"Monsieur Pilon," Enjolras stood and looked at the man, face ablaze with righteous scorn. "If that is indeed your name: take this back to whomever sent you - that we will not be fazed by such things, and that we mean to reform the world in a great sweep of fire. You cannot stop us. No one can. We are the people."

Whether Pilon would have been silenced or not went unanswered as Scaramouche swiftly and efficiently wrapped a loose blindfild around his eyes and whisked him out of the room once more. It had been eerily like witnessing some sort of pantomime put on for their benefit. Curious.

"And thus we have our explanation," Enjolras said just as calmly, picking up his notes and tapping them against the table.

Mon ami, I doubt even you can brush this off without comment. He cleared his throat ever so gently as Bahorel and Courfeyrac exchanged Significant Looks, and the others looked somewhere between confused and awkward.

Enjolras sighed. "Yes, Combeferre?"

"So it seems Grantaire is innocent, then," he said mildly. The rest could wait for discussion at a later time.

"Yes, it would seem so." It was said in a tone that indicated that they should drop the subject and move on to things more befitting their attention. It was a valiant effort, Combeferre thought, but not one that was likely to succeed.

Courfeyrac was the first to start asking questions, in his low, soft, slightly Spanish drawl. "How the hell did that guy find out where we met?"

"How'd you know him?" added Bahorel, looking almost accusingly at Enjolras.

"How did Scaramouche find him?" From Prouvaire, a question which was undoubtedly rhetorical, as Combeferre has no clue how Enjolras was supposed to know something like that. The Gemini were murmuring softly together, but didn't seem inclined to add anything specific to the conversation, so Combeferre raised his eyebrows at Enjolras.

"I recruited him for the cause a few weeks ago." Enjolras once again ignored him. "How was anyone to know he was a spy?"

"... wait... so... Enjolras," Lucien Courfeyrac blinked several times and actually raised his hands as though this alone would remove some of the sting from his words. "_You_ were the one who gave away where we meet and everything?"

Enjolras gave him a glare worthy of the Archangel Michael. "One might equally well say I gave the information away to all of you."

**"** ...but... we got thrown in _prison_." Courfeyrac appeared to be only slightly quelled by the thundering trumps and fiery sword. Combeferre looked down and saw a splint infinitive in his draft, picked up his pen, and carefully corrected it.

"It was an unfortunate setback, but all for the glory of the cause." Which was as close as Enjolras would come to admitting he had erred - here, at the least. He still felt he needed to present a perfect front to them, and there was little Combeferre could do to convince him otherwise.

Courfeyrac saw his chance and took it with an oportunistic flair that would have made a professional con artist proud. "..so... does this mean Grantaire can come back?"

"I would say "I don't see why not"," Enjolras replied coldly, "except that I have every reason to wish he would stay away. However, if you are asking only after this one reason, no, it is lifted."

"Good. I'll tell him after the meeting." Courfeyrac said cheerfully, as though the only words he had heard were 'I don't see why not'.

"All right." Enjolras said, and Combeferre couldn't help a slight smile. Say what you would about the drunk - be he annoying, loud, obnoxious, rude, or simply quite infuriatingly obtuse - it didn't take a wise man to see that he needed these meetings like a man in the desert needs an oasis. As the meeting returned to more normal subjects, Comebferre placed a missing fullstop on his paper, turned his attention on Enjolras, and felt a sense of relief. Perhaps now the spy was caught things could go back to what they had been.

_Papa Scaramouche escorted the Spy Pilon out of the Cafe and far enough down several streets and around several turns that he knew there was no chance of the connard finding his way back. "Here's where we part company, M'sieur."_

_""You're quite seriously just letting me go." The bull gave him a cynical look as he unbound him and removed the blindfold._

_Papa Scaramouche gave a laugh. "I'm not anyone's killer. But I do intend to keep a close eye on these young men - don't bother them again."_

_"We'll see about that." Pilon said the threat heavy on his voice, and slipped away into the shadows. Scaramouche watched him leave with a faint sense of foreboding, then turned tiredly on his heel and began the walk home._


	16. To Be a Hero To The Student of Man

**A/N: This update's a bit early because I'm doing some moving and job interviewing over the next few days and may not be in any state of mind to remember. After this arc is finished, we're probably going to slow down our updates a bit as we're not far enough ahead on the next Arc to keep up this frequency/ Just temporary, though.**

Feuilly had been fighting with himself all evening on the matter. Yes it is – no it isn't – yes it _must_ be – no it _can't_ be – that sort of thing. All he had to go on was conjecture, circumstantial evidence, and a very strong gut feeling – but then the evidence _against_ was hardly strong either. Some part of him wanted to simply drop the matter and go on as if he suspected nothing, but the longer he tried to convince himself to do so, the more the feeling that his suspicions were well-grounded increased. That explanation which is the simplest and fits the facts best ought to be true, no matter how fantastical – isn't that right? At once his mind began supplying counter-arguments, but it was too late: he had already run the scenario and found it to smack too much of truth to be discredited.

And thus it was that he stood before the door presumably belonging to Grantaire. 'Presumably' because he had no idea where Grantaire lived; all he had to go on was the fruits of discreetly asking around. Whether Grantaire actually lived behind it was another matter. However, as his knock brought Grantaire to the door…it was probably safe to assume that he _did_.

"…Feuilly?" he asked, peering out in surprise.

"Grantaire," he said with a nod.

"…how can I help you?" Grantaire looked very confused; Feuilly couldn't blame him. They hadn't even seen each other since their last, very odd meeting.

Or so Feuilly had thought.

"I wanted to talk about something."

"…fine," he replied, looking unsure. "Come in."

Feuilly followed him into the flat. "Thank you."

The lighting was better inside, and immediately he noticed that Grantaire's left eye had been recently blacked. Grantaire wasn't _tall_ – but he wasn't short either. It would have taken a man of some height to easily do that. And by the way he was leaning, there was something wrong with his ribs – which would have required a certain amount of strength. The scenario played itself out a little further, still without stumbling.

"So…" Feuilly said, finding a seat along with Grantaire, "Did you ever find out who turned us in?"

"…I looked around some," Grantaire said cautiously. "I have a few ideas, but I'm not sure."

Feuilly felt bold enough to make his suspicion clear. "Just a few ideas?"

"All right. What is it?" Grantaire said, eyeing him. It was less effective than he might have intended, given that his left eye was slightly swollen.

"Gotten in any fights recently?" he asked, looking at the injury pointedly.

"Quite a few," Grantaire said offhandedly. "You should see the other man."

"I have reason to believe that I have."

Grantaire folded his arms with a sort of 'aha' look on his face. "Really?"

"Yes."

"And how would you know?"

"Simple deduction."

"Really," Grantaire said again. "Humour me. Spell it out."

Feuilly took a breath. He was confident in his logic, but his arguments always had a way of sounding less reasonable to other people. "You approach me one day hoping to discover if I have accidentally told anyone about our group. You make a very bad job of pretending to be drunk –" Grantaire made a face that said he'd been caught out – "and make me recall someone whom I cannot quite remember. I put it out of my mind for the time being. The next week the spy is caught, and I do remember." An eyebrow from Grantaire, but it was a 'go on' eyebrow rather than the usual 'are you out of your _mind_' eyebrow. "Scaramouche is about your height, and his voice is pretty clearly similar to yours. Obviously he had been in a fight with this spy." As much had been evident from the injuries on the other man. "Of course I had no idea before now that you had a black eye, but it all fits. Who do I know of your height, with that peculiar habit of speech, with those same mannerisms, with a mind bent on finding out that traitor? One would have expected you to be picked up with us but you escaped it, so where were you?" He shrugged, partly to diffuse the sheer madness of what he had just postulated. "I think my reasoning is sound."

There was a short pause before Grantaire answered. "Very sound indeed."

Feuilly raised a questioning eyebrow. "Sound enough to be true?"

Grantaire smiled a very little. "…sound enough to be true."

So he was right then.

Grantaire…was Scaramouche.

Even before he could stop to process this, the obvious question presented itself. "So Harlequin…oh, of course, Joly." It would account for his odd guilty look when Enjolras had condemned Grantaire – among other things. "Has L'Aigle found out? I think he would kill him if he knew."

Grantaire winced a little. "…he didn't take it very well, but he appears to have forgiven us. He aided us in tracking down our informer. Though," he added, "frankly I think he was only there to stop Joly from being injured in my admittedly lunatic schemes."

He nodded. "Mhmm…that sounds about right." It sometimes seemed, in fact, that L'Aigle took any injury to _his_ Joly as a personal failure, if not an injury to his own person. Feuilly allowed himself to be a very little pleased with himself for being proved right.

"So," Grantaire said curiously, "why seek me out to tell me something I already know, Feuilly?"

"For one, I wanted to be sure," he said, "and for another, I got the feeling that this isn't the last we'll see of Scaramouche." He didn't know where the feeling came from…but it felt _right_.

"…perhaps." Grantaire raised an eyebrow. "Certainly if you lot get yourselves into trouble again. Maybe I'll expand to other individuals. Who knows?"

"Yes, who knows. Again, if you need my help…" He shrugged. While he had no regrets about belonging to the Society, Feuilly felt that feelings were empty without actions. And here was action.

Oddly – perhaps unsettlingly – Grantaire gave him a smile that was neither condescending nor cynical. "You know, Feuilly, you're the first to actually offer."

"Really." Now that was a surprise.

Grantaire rubbed his chin. "…oh quite. Joly really had nowhere else to go so I stampeded the poor homme, and the Eagle is only helping me to help Joly." He grinned. "What _are_ we going to call you?"

Feuilly groaned. "Don't get me mixed up in that, please…"

He just laughed. "Think of it like Robin Hood."

"…Robin Hood. Right." Feuilly had vaguely heard of the legend but somehow didn't think that was a decent excuse to go _nicknaming _him.

"It's a great metaphor," Grantaire said. "He stole from the rich to give to the poor which is essentially the whole point behind Enjolras' schemes, _and_ I believe he was secretly Polish."

Feuilly gave Grantaire an incredulous stare. Grantaire looked back with a perfectly straight face. Feuilly was about to make some cutting remark about how he was _perfectly_ capable of caring about issues without their being Polish, but before he could open his mouth someone knocked at the door.

"…I presume that's Joly and L'Aigle," Grantaire said.

"Ah. Of course." He suddenly wondered how his presence would be received.

"Excuse me." Grantaire got up and went back out of sight to the door. Feuilly shifted in his seat, thinking. It all made sense now – perfect, painfully exquisite sense – and he almost wondered why he hadn't caught on sooner. That singular gash of a grin, that grating laugh. No, he _knew_ why – because it had seemed too impossible for words. Something fantastical. And after the shock of the already-fantastical escape itself, he hadn't been inclined to look somewhere so unusual for answers. He had expected something more mundane, more…well, not _this_. More and more, he realized that the Grantaire that _seemed_ and the Grantaire that _was_ simply didn't match up. But _why_?

When Grantaire returned, he did indeed have Joly and L'Aigle with him – but he also had Bahorel and Courfeyrac. Feuilly looked up in surprise, trying to come up with some excuse for his being there; Grantaire just shrugged, and the others eyed him (and each other) with equal surprise and confusion.

Grantaire cleared his throat awkwardly. "…so…um…how have you all been?"

"Oh, not so bad," Bahorel said.

"In love…deeply in love," Courfeyrac said dreamily. Feuilly could almost see the stars in his eyes.

"When are you _not_?" Grantaire grinned. Joly sneezed and L'Aigle handed him a handkerchief with some concern.

"So what'd you lot come for?" Bahorel said cheerily.

"…uh…we were thinking we'd tell Grantaire that the real informer had been caught," L'Aigle said.

"Feuilly and I were exchanging opinions on Polish legends," Grantaire said, deadpan. Bahorel snickered and Feuilly did his best to hide his indignation. Again – the suppression of national identity and rending of a nation by the tyrants of the ages was an unforgivable assault on humanity, but _just because it was Polish_…! _He_ could have made up a better excuse than that, anyway. A lost hat. Somebody's pamphlets. Something _practical_.

A bit of an awkward silence followed during which the Gemini (as he'd heard them called) exchanged nervous glances and Bahorel, noting the lack of space on the couch, simply stretched out on the floor; Courfeyrac happily dropped down next to him. From the nervous look that crossed Grantaire's face, this was not a fortuitous move on either of their parts.

Bahorel leaned back to stretch his arms and suddenly stopped midway. "…hey, what's this?" From under the couch he pulled out…oh, _no_.

"…looks like Papa's hat," Courfeyrac said, eyeing the hat they had in fact all seen recently adorning the head of Scaramouche.

Bahorel turned it in his hands a few times and then looked up at Grantaire in surprise and suspicion. "…hell, I think it _is_ Papa's hat."

Oh, _dieu_.

There was no getting out of this now.


	17. Not Vanity, Trust in Your Friendship

**A/N: ...so... I know I said that the usual weekend update was that early update and all, but I'm just so excited by this arc and the ending and I feel that an extra update is completely understandable considering the fact that I missed one while I was in Australia anyway. :) Enjoy! Only two more chapters to go after this one!**

It had been Maurice's idea to go inform Grantaire of the good news, and _really_, cher. It's not like I'm going to argue! Daniel felt honestly awful about letting Gran-Scara-... their _friend_ get as hurt as he had. And y'could _see_ he'd been hurt, though after a few blocks he'd let go of Maurice and started walking along on his own. Joli had argued that it was quite alright, that he _was_ perfectly strong enough to support Grantaire and that _really_ you're going to pass out or have a fit if you keep _pushing_ yourself like this. Grantaire had given his weird thin grin, slightly crinkled at the edges, and... _really_... the more steps he took, the more upright he got. It had been like watching a blossom unfurl, except that Grantaire was really nothing at all like a flower - unless there were flowers which were crumpled and rather homely and smelled like absinthe...

How the man had made it through the meeting with that putain bull tugging at him was really quite beyond Daniel's powers to understand. Even Maurice had seemed bewildered by it, and had muttered something about internal haemorhaging before tugging him out of the cafe almost before Enjolras had a chance to close the meeting and hurrying him towards Grantaire's apartment. Not that Daniel _knew_ where Grantaire's lived. This appeared to be one of the odd bits of information his Joli had picked up while he'd been in prison. Cher, _I_ learned that there is only so long one can spend in a cell with even the _very_ most amiable of men before one begins to wonder why we are even friends... _you_ learned a lot of very dangerous things, including where Grantaire lives. He imagined that knowing where Grantaire lived was a dangerous thing which would have to go on his list of Dangerous Things I Do Not Want My Joli Doing Or Knowing - if one were to know where Grantaire lived, then one was more likely perhaps to get dragged into said estimable Grantaire's completely crazy plans.

Look, I'm not blind. I do _realise_ he's smarter than me, and better at this stuff. Really, Joli, I don't even mind that way you look at him as though he's some sort of God and knows the answers to everything anymore. Daniel shook his head, _no_. He got it. He understood. Grantaire had somehow tracked down the spy - damned putain connard - who had been responsible for all this mess, beaten him into submission (And that had been somehow the biggest shock of all. After all, for a man Daniel had seen rarely in possession of anything even slightly like grace... coordination... anything... he was quite a boxer. The several moments Daniel had actually thought of possibly punching their friendly drunkard had been hastily reconsidered and revised as probable to cause _him_ more damage than it did _Grantaire_. He was, after all, no boxer.) dragged him back to a meeting, oui, and then disposed of him. That made Grantaire _smart_. Dieu, that made Grantaire something altogether special indeed.

But let's face it. He's mad. He's just not... _practical_, cher.

Daniel thought all these things as the hurried to a poorer street than he had expected and met up with Dominic Bahorel and Luc Courfeyrac outside a particular door on that particular street, dieu, Joli... mon cher... did you forget that GrandR kind of already _had_ friends in Les Amis before we found out there was something going on inside his head besides classical quotations and wine? _Now_ what do we say? He tripped, then, and gave Dominic an awkward grin and an even more awkward laugh.

"Oh... uh... hello." It wasn't the most intelligent thing to say, but... _really_, what else was he meant to do? Lucien gave him and Joli a look as if to say 'when did you fellows start visiting our drunk?' and Dominic matched it and added in something vaguely menacing all his own which wasn't probably actually directed at them, but it was always very hard to tell with Bahorel. Joli broke something of the awkwardness of the moment by sniffing and knocking on the door.

Which, to Daniel's intense relief, a rather scruffy looking (and _really_ his face looked_ awful_) Grantaire opened moments afterwards. He stared at all of them, obviously as unused to receiving this many visitors as Lucien and Dominic were to _seeing_ him receive this many visitors.

"...Hello... Grantaire..." he grinned, aware that all people usually saw was the grin, but that was a fine thing to be remembered for and he didn't really mind. Joly was standing very close by - not that I'm about to argue, cher - and was trying to smile but looking instead a little lost and as though he were about to drown in his coat-that-was-too-big-for-him.

Bahorel broke the silence with his usual blunt amicability. "Popular guy, aren't you?"

"Is _that_ why you've deserted us lately?" added Courfeyrac, leaning against the doorframe with as much ease as though he'd been born to lean against doorframes and had - in fact - been doing so all his life.

**"** ...um." Grantaire said rather dryly. "Well, nice to see you all I'm sure. What's the occasion? Someone find a revolutionary group I _haven't_ been kicked out of yet?" There was a bite to his words, and Daniel honestly couldn't tell if he was acting or not. Wait... Grantaire hadn't figured this bit out yet? The bit where his name was cleared and everyone hurried over to tell him? Daniel himself had never actually been in the position to do so, but he'd figured that he'd have rehearsed the whole thing a couple of times already in his head - maybe added a death-defying feat and a few wolves... just for drama. Not that he'd actually want wolves anywhere near - it was a fantasy, right? Fantasies didn't _have_ to have lists of things and fret about... never mind. Suffice to say it really didn't appear that Grantaire had thought his ridiculously genius plan to stop the spy would _really_ extend to being allowed back into Les Amis.

Dominic grinned. "Actually, you've been let back in."

"Really now?" That was definitely surprise. Daniel shot a quick glance at Joli as if to say 'what did we actually do all that running about the back streets _for_ then?' Maurice was looking just as confused as he felt, so at least that meant he wasn't missing something incredibly obvious. Like he had when he'd asked Combeferre what exactly _was_ so important about Algiers.

"Oh yes, Enjolras even said it was all right!" Lucien appeared, much like Dominic, to be immune to Grantaire's dry irony. Maybe it was like walking over really _really_ rough ground in bare feet. Maybe you just got _used_ to it eventually.

He felt bad for comparing Grantaire to really _really_ rough ground, then, and grinned sheepishly to make up for it.

"Yeah, your name's been cleared."Dominic was grinning even wider, obviously enjoying passing on the good news.

Grantaire seemed at a loss for the appropriate response, and instead settled for an almost subdued, "Well, that's _nice_."

Didn't he read _any_ sensational fiction at all? After having their name cleared of villainy, the hero - and please, mon chers, it's not like anyone's arguing that he's the hero of this little drama - looks stoic and resolved, thanks Dieu on a bended knee and manfully embraces his stalwart friends while allowing himself to weep a few tears over the hard and heavy road he had to travel. Heroes did not stand in the doorway looking vaguely embarrassed. Daniel shook his head, and cleared his throat, "...can we come in?" This cold air was doing nothing for Joli, and if Grantaire wasn't going to satisfy everyone by acting _properly_, then at the very least they could all be awkward inside where it was nice and warm. Right? Of course right. Besides, he was still not quite sure what miasmas were but he was sure that standing around like this... just... wasn't a good thing. Really.

Grantaire looked less than eager, but nodded anyway. "...of course."

And then they were inside, sitting on the sofa as Grantaire tried to explain away everyone's presence to everyone else, and Feuilly was sitting on a chair looking as though he thought everyone was quite mad and also as though he wanted people to stop thinking he was only interested in Poland... something Daniel could certainly understand. _He_ got tired of being classified by his lack of hair and good luck. Just slightly tired, because really, it wasn't like he could _blame_ them. No. Really. After all, there had been a while where no one _really_ wanted to allow M. Daniel Watch-Out-I'll-Break-It! Lesgle to talk to them, sit at their table... join in on their conversations... that sort of thing. So what if the lads sometimes forgot that he was a little bit more than Maurice Joly's bald shadow?

Apart from the presence of Feuilly, Grantaire's apartment was bare. Just a bit of furniture, a lot of books, and some dust. Daniel _had_ rather expected something more... what? Mephistophelean? Not quite _dead_ bodies or anything, but certainly more... sinister and brooding. Perhaps with cobwebs? Definitely more booze. There didn't appear to be any empty bottles on the floor or even any on the table. Did Grantaire just leave his drunken persona at the cafe like a snake-skin... _really_ L'aigle, what is _wrong_ with you? He is _not_ Satan incarnate. Even if he _does_ seem to have more secrets than damn _Bluebeard_.

There was an awkward sort of introduction, Dominic and Lucien both sat on the floor while Daniel and Maurice awkwardly perched on the remaining sofa and looked at each other as if to say 'How do we get _out_ of this?'

Which was when Dominic lay down, made a noise of surprise, and produced the hat Grantaire had been wearing as 'Scaramouche'. Oh Dieu. Oh dear dieu... that's not good. It was even less good when _both_ Lucien and Dominic identified it as 'Papa's' hat and turned what were pretty _damn_ suspicious looks on Grantaire who was suddenly looking almost scared.

"...maybe I know ... papa?" It didn't sound in the least convincing. Daniel gave Maurice a quick glance - should we be surprised, cher? I mean it's not like we're meant ot know, or anything...

Lucien bit his lip and said very quietly, "...Grantaire... what happened to your face?"

Grantaire looked more awkward, bringing a hand quickly up check his face as though he'd already forgotten about his swollen nose and split lip. His hand hovered for a moment and he gave them all a half-cynical, half-daring, and - to Daniel's eyes - completely lost look.

"Grantaire..." Lucien said more sternly now, sitting up with a speechless but no less insistent looking Dominic at his side.

And Grantaire gave in, rather belligerently. "...all right. Fine. I'm Scaramouche."

Dominic blinked in complete disbelief. " ...you?"

_"You_?" Lucien echoed, making a bad situation _worse_, and Daniel had to cough to cover up the fact that his first reaction was to laugh.

Perhaps not surprisingly, Grantaire bristled. "...There's the hat," and he fished in the back of the chair - _Dieu_, couldn't he put these things in a _sensible_ place? - and pulled out the elegant black and gold mask. "Here's the mask."

"..._damn_. That explains a lot." Dominic breathed, looking rather impressed - which Dom really would be. If there was fighting going on, Dominic usually wanted in on it - or wanted to know who'd won.

"Most of it, actually." Lucien added.

It didn't appear to have struck any of the others in the room as odd that neither Daniel nor Maurice were exactly acting surprised at the revelation. Then again, it really wasn't like anyone was paying attention to them - except possible Feuilly. And damn if _he_ didn't look completely unsurprised as _well_. What _was_ Feuilly doing here?

"Well." Grantaire put the mask cavalierly on the back of the chair and shrugged a little. "Now you know." If had been possible for him to get much more now-go-away-and-stop-bothering-me, he just had. His shoulders were all bunched up, and he had the look of an animal cornered in a very tight spot and looking for his way out.

Neither Lucien or Dominic seemed to notice, just blinking between Grantaire and then each other a couple of times and making vaguely astonished noises before Lucien let out one of his gloriously gay sunlight and springtime laughs and shrugged with his whole body.

"And there we were telling 'Ferre you wouldn't have had the nerve to hand us in to the government."

Tactful, that wasn't. Perhaps Lucien wasn't as happy about this as he was letting on, it just wasn't _like_ him to be so outright obviously insensitive. Of course he teased... but that was just teasing, that wasn't telling a homme you claimed to be an ami of that you'd basically gone around arguing he had no spine. Daniel could see Grantaire look distinctly unamused by the prospect, and winced a little. Why are we even here? _They're_ friends, let _them_ sort it out! Let us of the Obvious and Easily Distinguishable Characteristics leave them to their fight or conversation or whatever they're about to have.

"You could have let us know before, you know." Dominic said, with a frown starting that _really_ didn't bode well. In Daniel's memory, that was the kind of frown Dominic got when he was seriously considering taking something badly.

"Couldn't take the risk, Bahorel." Grantaire said shortly. Which was, as Daniel could've told him if people actually asked him about things like this which they usually didn't, the wrong thing to say entirely. Dominic's face contracted into an insulted sort of scowl and his fists bunched up a bit.

"_Risk?_ What do you mean, _risk_?" Lucien was also looking insulted - or at least Daniel was pretty sure that was what his expression meant. He couldn't honestly say he'd _seen_ Lucien insulted before. Not really honest-to-Dieu insulted like this. Even when someone shot that damn participle at him, he didn't take it _this_ badly. Daniel wondered if he should do something and instead sat a bit closed to Maurice - who was looking both intimidated and highly uncomfortable. This.. wasn't how things were supposed to end.

Grantaire swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment before started again in what was obviously meant to be a far more conciliatory tone, "...look, it was obvious someone who knew us pretty well was responsible... we decided since we were breaking into _prison_, it was best to stay incognito." It made sense to Daniel - but then he _really_ didn't want Joli getting tracked down by angry bull-like spies and being taken away somewhere uncomfortable, damp, and filled with criminal germs. Feuilly also looked convinced, and even a little bemused by the reaction of Grantaire's Two Friends.

"And what about afterwards?" Dominic said in his low 'I'm really angry but not throwing punches yet' voice.

"Afterwards?" Grantaire repeated dumbly.

A brusque nod. "When you were done with the breaking-into-prison part?"

"And the breaking out again, part." Lucien added, looking no less angry than his ami.

"Well then," Grantaire drawled lightly. "I'd be one of the hommes who broke seven people out of the Prefecture... still don't really want that to become common knowledge."

"Who says it would have been?" Dominic demanded, and Daniel felt Maurice give a little twitch next to him and knew what he was thinking. If anyone here thought about asking who _Harlequin_ was now... who _knew_ what might happen?

Luckily it seemed that Scaramouche's prison-breaking-into partner was the last thing from their minds, for Lucien just raised a pointed eyebrow. "You think we'd have gone spilling that about town, R?"

"Hey..." Daniel couldn't bear the helplessly outnumbered look Grantaire was giving everyone anymore. "I think he's just saying he was trying to be careful, amis." This earnt him an incredulous 'oh there's L'aigle saying stupid things again' look from both of them.

" ...Grantaire... _careful_?" Lucien drawled, rather nastily.

"Well, I _was_." Grantaire said, looking rather defensive. "I don't break into putain prisons every day."

Feuilly provided some much needed support from a very unexpected corner. "Leave him alone, he's got a perfectly good point." Daniel really didn't care _why_ Feuilly was suddenly sticking up for CapitalR, at least _someone_ was. Someone other than him who might just have a little more in the way of ... credibility.

"...I'd have to disagree there, Feuilly - can't say I think any of that is a good reason to keep me and Dom out of things." Lucien looked actually, properly angry now, also seemingly irritated enough to argue with anyone who sided with Grantaire, be it Daniel, Feuilly, or probably even Joli.

"You can't be too careful with these things." Feuilly said coolly. "Look how we ended up there in the first place."

Grantaire nodded emphatically, "Exactly!"

"I think he's known us a lot longer and knows us a lot better than that, Feuilly." Dominic said rather tersely, ignoring Grantaire altogether. Which basically meant 'he should know I'm not the type to go blabbing about my friends, dammit!'.

Grantaire gave him a slightly wounded look. Daniel wondered if Grantaire was upset that both his amis had gone wandering around telling people he had no nerve, and was thinking they should have known _him_ better than that. "...It wasn't _personal_, Bahorel."

"How else was it?" Dominic demanded heatedly. "Maybe you wouldn't want to tell the whole group...all right. That's pushing it. But not telling us?"

"Thought you knew us better." Lucien added.

Grantaire shrugged his shoulders higher, as though he were trying to shrink inside himself. "I didn't want to tell _anyone_."

"Right. Right." Dominic picked at the floor, irritably.

"Great." Lucien swatted his hand with an absent grunt. "Lovely. Splendid, even."

Oh dieu. This was... not good. Daniel laughed awkwardly. It was just what he _did_ when he was feeling miserable or worried or anything. It was what he _did._

"...look," Grantaire took a breath shakily, looking both exasperated and pissed off, awkward and embarrassed, and suddenly neither much like a snake or the devil, but rather a very human man. "All I wanted was to help out - I didn't want to have everyone knowing about it." And that was the problem, wasn't it? Grantaire just didn't want anyone to _know_.

Dominic glared, not appreciating the snap at all. "Ashamed to have done something _right_?"

"Maybe. Yeah, why not." Grantaire met Dominic's glare with one of his own.

"Sounds like you, R," Lucien put in, making the number of People Glaring Angrily in the room a total of three. "Not like you to actually _finish_ anything _worthwhile_."

"So." Grantaire folded his arms and managed not to look _quite_ as though he were being bitten by an adorable puppy which he loved very dearly. "There we are, then."

"So it would seem." Dominic stood up and folded his arms.

Lucien stood up as well, all long legs and arms, sticking his hands deep into his pockets and staring down at the ground. "Si."

There was a moment's pause, and then Grantaire quickly glanced at them out of the corner of his eyes, almost pleadingly. "...you want to give me my hat back, Bahorel?" It was something almost like a peace offering, but Daniel had his doubts - nasty sick doubts that were clogging up his stomach - that it would be accepted.

"Oh, right. Of course." Dominic gave the hat a look that would have scorched a lesser being, and tossed it at Grantaire, who caught it easily.

Lucien made an odd, explosive noise. "Dom, let's go, amigo."

"No point in staying here, huh?" Dominic said flatly.

"Bahorel..." Grantaire let out a sigh, stepping forwards. "Courfeyrac... _really_..."

But they weren't listening. Lucien turned his back, and Dominic made the most pointed of polite goodbyes to everyone, Maurice and Feuilly, even Daniel included, before tugging Lucien to the door and out of it, leaving a strained silence in their wake. Grantaire stood very still for a moment, and then swore like a one-eyed, one-handed carpenter under his breath. Daniel didn't recognise half the words and felt as though his ears had been scorched off.

"...I suppose... we'd better be getting along... too? Maurice?" He looked down at Joli as if to ask 'what happened' and a little quieter 'why didn't we stop it' and even more quietly 'is _that_ what friendship is about?'

"Er...right?"Maurice looked as lost as he felt, and just as awkward. Poor Grantaire.

'Poor Grantaire' was glaring at the hat in his hands. "Go on. I'm going out anyway."

"Oh, in that case I should go as well." Feuilly said, getting up as though nothing untoward had actually happened. Which was either damn good manners, or damn poor ones, and Daniel couldn't figure out which, but was just so relieved that Grantaire had said it was okay for them to go because he couldn't just fix people and it felt stupid to just sit around and do nothing.

Grantaire seemed to have forgotten they were even there. He threw the hat into a corner and kicked the couch violently, disentangling his coat from the arm and pulling it on so hard that Daniel could hear the seams complaining. Feuilly had also put on his coat, so Daniel hustled Maurice towards the door and home. Home where his tripping over a cat wouldn't get them killed by angry spies, and people wouldn't try and break friendships with other people because the other people had saved them from prison.

He hoped Grantaire would be okay, but wasn't really sure what he could do to help. Three days ago he hadn't even _liked_ the man. What could he offer in the place of two men who had _always_ been Grantaire's friends?


	18. As Foul Things Shun The Light

_So_ he had been wrong. Was he not allowed to make mistakes?

Enjolras sighed.

No. He was not.

Any failure, any trace of humanity, was bound to weaken him. He must be perfect as Truth and Liberty were perfect if he could ever claim to be faithful to them. He would have to cast off the flawed system from which he had come and remake himself in the image of that Fire of which he was merely the messenger. And Marianne knew he _tried_. Combeferre was the only man who did not imagine he was utterly imperturbable. And Enjolras knew he had almost perfected his ability to command attention. But he had not yet come to the stage at which he could truly call himself a devotee of his beloved Cause. He still found himself easily distracted and – as this latest affair showed – was still an utter failure at judging the merits of men. It was _unacceptable_, and he had already sworn to reapply himself to the vital tasks at hand. He _must_ learn to give himself up. The tree of Liberty, that bears the fruit of Justice, is ever watered by the blood and sweat of the martyrs.

Combeferre did not agree with these sentiments, but Enjolras was determined in this case (if in no others) to stand against him. If this meant quietly doubling back halfway to his apartment and returning to the least frequented corner of Musain's back room in order to rebuke himself and review these freakishly detailed notes in peace…so be it.

The sound of someone scraping a chair roused him from Inheritance Laws, and he looked up to see none other than Grantaire the cynic, Grantaire the unbeliever, Grantaire the drunkard sitting before him with a bottle of wine. And here Enjolras had thought he'd been rid of that particular distraction – had thought he had been one step closer to finally making himself worthy – forever. Almost instantly his mood tipped from bad to worse.

Grantaire looked up under the focus of Enjolras' fierce glare. "If you intended to attend the meeting, Winecask," Enjolras said to him coldly, "you've missed it." He would not put it past Grantaire to do so.

Grantaire raised a dirty glass to him with that detestable, idly ironic look. "…heaven forbid I should disobey the orders of Apollo."

"How many times have I told you not to use that name for me," Enjolras snapped. What Grantaire failed to see and always _had_ failed to see was that he, Augustin Enjolras, was himself _nothing_, and wholly undeserving of such a title. Turn away from your idolatry, cynic – worshipper of Bacchus and of one all-too-faulty leader – and then we will talk together like men.

Grantaire contemplated a second and then raised a cynical eyebrow as well. "…fifty-eight. How many times have I told you not to call me 'Winecask'?"

"As far as I know, never." The Winecask had kept _track_? If he really had – rather than simply making a guess – Enjolras could not imagine any reason for doing so. It was infuriating to see such potential purposely thrown away.

"Quite true," Grantaire nodded.

"What are you getting at?" Enjolras said angrily, feeling his Neutral Expression sizzle and evaporate. It was doubly infuriating to know that so worthless a figure as Grantaire could so easily make him lose his temper.

"Nothing. Not a thing, Apollo," Grantaire said, gazing vaguely into the depths of his glass. "Perhaps I should have asked. Perhaps it wouldn't have made any difference."

"That is what is so despicable about you," Enjolras said to him. "You cannot find any specific thing to say, not even one statement to declare true and stand behind."

Grantaire looked back with that singularly misanthropic smile. "Not _quite_ true, Enjolras. I specifically and unequivocally can say I like _wine_."

The large and hopefully expanding part of Enjolras that wished to see every man employed in service to his nation was furious. "Then you are a disgrace to humanity and a blight on the face of this earth."

"Yeah. So you keep reminding me," Grantaire sighed.

"Well, you seem to keep _forgetting_ it."

Grantaire tossed back yet another glass of his wine. "I never forget what you tell me, Enjolras." Sincere words and a dry, sarcastic, laughing tone that took it all back. The combination was both classic Grantaire and the worse kind of disrespectful to the Cause.

"Ah, yes, you must remember it, so as to make a mockery of it later," Enjolras snapped back. Even as you now make a mockery of my ideals, Winecask, even as you have always made a mockery of our efforts.

"Of course. Naturally," Grantaire said sarcastically. "The only possible reason for my presence in the world. I must be Loki incarnate."

"Don't fling your half-chewed, wine-soggy sarcasm at me. I'm sure you can find a more appreciative audience for it elsewhere."

Grantaire looked back at him sullenly. "I did not start the conversation, Apollo. All I want is my wine. I'm not _bothering_ you."

_Aren't_ you? Enjolras didn't know how to explain something he'd explained a hundred times before, to no avail and with no results. He decided to settle for the very simplest version – not, perhaps, the most specific or _accurate_ but surely the broadest – in the hopes that it would better permeate that thick drunken skull. "Your very _presence_ bothers me."

"…I cannot remove myself from the face of the _earth_, Enjolras!" Grantaire said in exasperation.

"_Couldn't_ you?" he replied. Grantaire simply stared, eyes wide. Enjolras wondered, had he finally understood? There was no place for the wasted, cursed, drunken man Grantaire had become. The good man he must have once been – the useful man he might yet be – but not what he was now.

"…could I," Grantaire said flatly.

"Yes. You could," Enjolras answered.

"And that would make you happy, would it?"

"I believe it would."

Grantaire returned his gaze to the table and set his glass down before saying, almost lightly, "Is that my next assignment, Apollo?"

Enjolras did not appreciate the light tone and harshened his reply without thinking. "Whatever gets you out of my sight, Winecask."

"Right," Grantaire said with an odd laugh, also unappreciated. "Should be able to manage that."

"Then _do_ it."

"Fine. All right then." Grantaire scraped his chair back and got up. "Good bye, Enjolras."

"Good _bye_, Grantaire."

At last the Winecask was gone again – hopefully finally prepared to either leave them all alone or change his ways – and Enjolras could return to looking over his – or, really, Combeferre's – notes and making still further notations in the margins on how it _ought_ to be, and how it would be best to bring such changes about. He was still not sure whether or not Grantaire had understood him.

Sometimes he half believed Grantaire was as incapable of changing as of anything else worthwhile.


	19. The True Man Under That MakeBelieve

**A/N - This _is_ the last chapter for Arc Two. Please keep an eye out for Arc Three - 'Scurrilous Phantom' which will be coming soon. Out of sheer curiosity... we've noted a dramatic increase in our readership in the last month. Where are you lovely lovely people _coming_ from?  
**

Physician _remove_ thyself.

Now you've gone and fixed all our problems, do us a final favor and fix the _last_ one, would you?

Grantaire was trying not to think. He was trying _very_ hard not to think, which was why he'd brought the bottle along with him. Why'd you think I got into you in the first place, you damn beautiful siren? Helps me not to think. Don't get to thinking anything much, which is a whole lot better, _merci_, than thinking about anything great. Or about great men, ah? Like Pere - there was a great man. Once. A long time ago. Philipe - he was a great man. M. Chenevier - a great man.

Want to know something? Great men fall. Their feet are all clay and iron mixed up together and they topple over into a heap, leaving you nothing but a pair of bronze calves to look at. Can't really be surprised that little stupid idiot men like me can barely stand up, can you? Can't really be surprised we struggle to lift our heads and look angels in the face, can you?

Because Enjolras was _still_ a great man. He didn't stumble. He didn't fall. His head was of gold, and the eyes he turned on the unworthy... Dieu.

Dead?

Really?

Did Enjolras hate him _that_ much? Was he _that_ useless that even th' bit of air he took up became a waste that could have expanded more useful lungs? Something that had been clenching in his chest for a while now, contracted, and he gasped and stumbled, and took a long pull of wine. Cold, that was.

Grantaire - the useless drunk. Can't do anything right. Not even expected to have the nerve to try, are you? And who'd even stay friends with you? You're a drunk. A bottle. A raucous noise in the corner. A nothing. A nuisance.

Remove yourself, you coward. Serve the cause with your absence from the earth, and then Apollo will smile and be glad.

He felt his face chill even as his eyes stung, and there we were. Same place he'd deposited the spy not two hours before. Same place exactly. He hadn't even known this was where he was going. But voila, cher bottle. You and I, we'll go there together - wherever there is. The angel hates you too, so we might as well make it a round two for th' price of one and get us both out of his precious golden hair.

A hulking figure stepped out of the shadows, and Grantaire found himself not even a little surprised to see it was the spy. "Hey, you."

**"** ...yeah, what?" he looked at the man, up and down and back and forth. Pilon, eh? Doubt that's your real name, is it. Dieu, but you're ugly, and I don't like you at all. Not a bit.

The feeling of dislike appeared to be mutual. "Don't I know you?"

"Maybe I'm your long lost brother." And he really didn't care.

"Pretty awful way to treat your brother."

"I don't like my brothers." Grantaire let the unswollen side of his mouth sneer a little. It was undoubtedly true. He hated his brothers. Probably another reason why he was useless. What kind of person hates his brothers?

"Good, I wouldn't if I had any."

Apparently the _spy_ was the kind of person who would hate his brothers. That was just great. Grantaire offered a tight, unfriendly grin and decided they'd both had enough with pretending. "How's your knee?"

"How's your ribs?" the spy retorted, matching his grin with a warning shark-like baring of his teeth.

Was there going to be fighting? Grantaire felt a fierce, delirious delight well up in him, all jagged edges and painful smiles and _dieu_ he wanted to punch someone who deserved to be punched. "Broken."

"Glad to hear it."

Course you are. Grantaire laughed mockingly and took a pull from his wine bottle. Men like you don't really care what you do so long as it hurts someone. I don't _think_ I'm a man like you. Am I? Is that what happened to me? Is that why Enjolras thinks everything would be better off if I'm just... gone? It frightened him suddenly, and he put the bottle down and looked at it. Could just taking a swallow make him into the monster standing in front of him?

The spy was speaking, fists bunched menacingly. "Willing to consider a rematch?"

"...oh dieu, why not?" and he spoke lightly, as though accepting a dance, but really he wasn't very light at all. He was heavy, and sick, and terrible, feeling the scales of a monster for the first time covering his face. He wanted to reach up and brush them off, but was afraid they would actually _be_ there if he tried.

"Man after my own heart."

I'm pretty sure, Grantaire thought firmly, giving the spy an unfriendly look, that I'm not yet quite as bad as you. "...my dear sir, I doubt I could get to it." And yet he let you live, didn't he? He didn't tell _you_ to remove yourself from the planet. Maybe he just didn't think you'd listen. Maybe he trusts me to do _this_ right - at least.

The spy gave a laugh and Grantaire knew exactly what he was going to do. It was an odd moment of clarity, swimming out of the half-drunk haze obscuring his thoughts. "Exactly what _is_ the penalty for breaking into a prison these days?"

"That, my friend, is something you're about to find out." The spy moved fast, so fast that he almost didn't even have to stop himself from reacting. One big meaty hand grabbed his shoulder, swung, and then he was pressed up against the damp stone of the wall and wondering how long this would all take. There was a metallic sort of snap, and the familiar weight of cuffs encircled his wrists, cold - unfriendly companions.

"They are _very_ cold. Hardly hospitable of you." his mouth felt dry. Would anyone even know? Did it even matter? Would anyone care? He hoped they never did know. It struck him that Joly might get a little upset, and he really didn't think he wanted Joly to get upset.

The spy breathed in his ear. "They're usually not so cold, but that's only for lesser crimes."

"Which was the bigger crime then," he gave a grin as he was turned back around to face his captor, "breaking into prison or attacking your good self?"

"The prison break, but it's a close call." the big man gave him a cool, calculating look - something almost reptilian in the way he seemed to be weighing Grantaire down to the marrow of his bones. "Did you say your ribs were broken?"

Ah. "Some." One on the right, one cracked on the left. He drew in a short breath, eyes beginning to water just a little in anticipation.

"Oh, good." the spy didn't disappoint, one large heavy fist ramming into his side with enough force to knock all the air out of him. Grantaire caved at the blow, crumpling a little as he fought to take a steady breath around the pain and keep a straight face at the same time. He only succeeded in one of them.

"...Gnn." Luckily, perhaps, it was the breathing he succeeded in.

"Don't be slow, now." the spy gave him a yank and straightened him up, a pleased smirk on his face showing how very _much_ he was enjoying this. "Got some people rather anxious to see you."

"well... can't... have that... can we?" _Dieu_, but it was hard to breath. Grantaire wanted to lean on the man - hell, even this man would do. He wanted to scream, kick the wall, lie down and take shallow breaths for the rest of his life. Black spots were darting in front of his eyes as each movement of his lungs stabbed - and he _knew_ what being stabbed was like, merci, _exactly_ like this - straight through him. Dieu... please... dieu, that hurts.

"Wouldn't do."

Maybe it was the smugness in the man's voice, but Grantaire made an effort, straightened his head, and grinned flippantly. "I'm ready to meet my adoring fans." The spy grimaced in irritation and punched him again in exactly the same spot. Despite repeating in his head _it doesn't hurt that much, it doesn't hurt that much, it doesn't hurt that much_, he went down, bent over and on one knee, and gave a short, cut off cry that sounded like the bark of a wounded dog. Fitting, he thought rather hazily.

The strong, unfriendly hand on his arm yanked him back to his feet. "Well, then come on."

There were blotches floating across the world, and he could barely breathe... but he grinned and came on. Dieu. He was going to make it an end Enjolras could be proud of - not that he'd ever know. None of them would. They'd just think he'd lost interest and found somewhere else to drink, if it crossed their minds to think about it at all. Frankly, though he hoped it was hidden behind the stiff grin and labored breathing, Grantaire was scared. Not of this man, not of whatever he'd dish out before that final end came, but Grantaire was scared - absolutely _terrified_ of dying alone. It was one reason why he hid behind the bottle almost every day, because you could feel it if you were sober enough, and paid enough attention. You could feel life slipping by you... all alone.

Unless you were too drunk to think about it.

Maybe he really was a coward, Grantaire thought. Maybe Bahorel and Courfeyrac were right - Enjolras certainly was. No brave man would be so frightened of the idea of a lonely noose, a drop, and the cold black end of nothing. No man who was worth anything would have any reason to be scared.

Still, he grinned anyway and swore he'd keep grinning. At the very very least, no one would know. At the very very _very_ least, he'd wear one more mask until he died.


End file.
